


Hanzo and the Denim Blues

by jarethsdragon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Undercover Hanzo, angry hanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarethsdragon/pseuds/jarethsdragon
Summary: You are the hottest singer in the hottest band and you get a new security person.  Who knew how hot that would get?
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Hanzo and the Denim Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iLoveHanzoMoreThanSleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iLoveHanzoMoreThanSleep/gifts).



Hanzo groaned inwardly as he sat through the briefing.

Hell. What in the name of all the ancestors had he ever done to deserve this? He had studied kyudo with the same bow for over twenty years. He had studied the Shimada-do style of ninjutsu since he could walk. He had trained relentlessly ever since he had joined the ranks of Overwatch. He had fought through every battle, every rotation—everything. 

Now—this!

The plain suited commander scowled at him over the thick folder. “Is there a problem, Agent Shimada?”

He grunted, “I am sure that you are aware that I am... not the suitable choice for this mission.” He pointed at the map of the city stadium. “There is a chance that I will be—.”

The commander bristled and waved the manila folder over the small map and paper covered table. “There is not another option. Jesse is obviously too big and will be recognized in this area immediately. You know that the Denim Blue band uses Asians and Asian-Americans in their retinue—where you will be more likely to to be able to blend into her crew.” He shrugged. “I have no other choice.”

Hanzo flushed and stared at the papers and folder in his commanding officer’s hand. “I still do not believe that I can get into the tour areas without being recognized.” He gave a scowl and hit the shudder under a stiff spine. “If I have to do this—I want a disguise.”

“You want... a cover?” Hanzo nodded stiffly. “I don’t have authorization for a full, deep cover. The best that we can do is some ID—if you insist.”

“I do.”

The commander rolled his eyes. “Fine—if that is what it will take. I’ll provide a cover identity—but it will not hold up if anything happens. Especially if something does happen and this lands in court, you’ll have to handle the flak for a false identity.”

“I understand.” He shrugged reluctantly. “I will accept the responsibility as long as it is enough that I’m not immediately recognized.”

That only made the commander smile.

Two days later, Hanzo couldn’t recognize himself. The sides of his head were shaved close and the rugged stubble colored a blue-black. The middle was still long, but tied up in some kind of reckless bun thing. He had agreed to piercing in the bridge of his nose, but the earring in his lobe and the two piercings along the top of his ear were faked. A high-quality, temporary tattoo of skulls and flames went down his right arm now and his own tattoo was decorated with matching skulls and flames.

But the clothes were absurd.

He had favored Japanese fashion houses before, and preferred a well fitting suit over junk clothes any day. He had even favored more formal kimono over the sweats and leisure wear that his brother kept bringing to Hanamura. He liked to look good—who would not? Now, as he stared at himself in the hotel room mirror, he was in a pair of ragged denim pants with a studded leather belt with the most ginormous belt buckle, a sort of top that seemed to be barely a yard of fabric that circled his waist and then tied behind his neck, a cowboy hat, and a rugged leather jacket with chains dripping off the shoulders.

He hadn’t even tried the cowboy boots. He practically cringed to look at them with their stiff soles, their high arching bottom and the few inches of narrow heel. They would go up to the middle of his shin and were embroidered with elaborate cow skulls. He wanted—desperately—for this to all be a mistake, but obviously the custom boots told him that this was real. Gingerly, he stepped into them and picked up the anonymous duffle bag that held only more of the same kinds of clothes. Another pouch held a phone and a laptop computer. Then, he assumed he was ready.

He was surprised—genuinely surprised—to go to the security firm with a fake resume and a list of faked recommendations. Without a second thought, he was put into the short list of possible security guards. There must have been hundreds that were turned away, but he went with five other men in a variety of sort of punk and country mixed clothes. At the next stop, he presented his paperwork and spoke briefly with the manager in a sort of interview. The four “recommendations” were called right there and he got glowing recommendations. (Not surprisingly—since despite all of the numbers being for different states, they all went directly to the team handling this part of the mission.) He sat back and waited as three of the men were dismissed and he and one other man were taken into the depths of the building.

You were there, sitting on a plain stool with an electric blue violin under your chin, playing a rousing tune with a lazily smiling man sitting at the drum set and tapping. You didn’t even pause as he was led in and introduced to the rest of the band who were watching this solo practice.

Finally a scrawny guy shouted, “Hey, there! We have to get this settled, people. We leave in ninety minutes, so let’s get this done.”

You looked up and nodded at the drummer, who picked up a water bottle lazily. Your eyes looked at the other guy and then at Hanzo. “Who is this?”

“Oh, Denim—baby—one of these lucky guys is the new security for the tour.” Hanzo gave you a small grin as you flinched at the flamboyant man. He would remember that. “So, with Angel staying home with his family for the next month, we got these guys.”

You snorted and pointed at Hanzo with a smile. “Him.”

“Darling. Do you want to talk to—?”

Your face went stern and you raised your eyebrows slightly as your voice went deep and icy. “And it is my choice?”

“Of course, darling—.”

“Then, I choose him. I like the look of him. Now that it’s settled, let me get back to work.”

He smiled at you, as the scrawny guy led his other competitor away. Someone gestured towards an empty stool and he sat down. He had been carefully informed about the particulars of the tour. Denim Blue was one of the hottest groups on tour right now and intelligence had suggested that Talon was going to sabotage a performance. There would be chaos at the concert venue and then they would could count on thin resources when they hit whatever they were going after. There were two possible stops that seemed to be likely targets—one near a military research campus and one that was near a military base. There were two concerts that were open with eighty percent off for military and first responders—which would make the personnel even more scarce.

You had a drummer that was a college friend; pair of guitarists that you had been playing with since Denim Blue was playing in small, local clubs in the San Francisco Chinatown; and a musician that waffled around between a harmonica, an electric guitar, a shamisan, and a cello. There was a crew that handled the lighting and general setup and take down of the equipment each night and a manager that traveled with the band to take care of paperwork. You had known each of them for quite a long time and none of them had any red flags for terrorism or Talon connections. With this tour, you had finally decided to hire a full time security team. The one known as Angel had become famous in a minor way for tackling an overzealous fan before he could get to you, but his wife had just had twins and you were (again) internet famous because you gave him four weeks off with his pay.

As the commander had said, you had a retinue of mainly Asians or Asian-Americans. You had grown up on the outskirts of Chinatown. Your drummer was a handsome Korean man. One guitarist was Japanese-American and the musician-of-all-instruments was a pretty and petite Japanese woman who would have been a geisha in a previous century. The various groupies and technicians were a more motley crew of nationalities of mostly Chinese or Japanese or Korean descent.

Shortly, everyone filed out to the back of the building and up to a line of blue tour busses. A large truck held the equipment—except for your violin—and it rumbled off down the road. The techs began babbling and taking out small bags of dice and wads of paper and they boarded the last bus with cheers and babbling about dragons and wizards. He watched as the band began picking up their personal items.

“Hey! New guy!” you shouted. Hanzo looked up at you curiously. “You’re up in the front bus to start.”

He nodded at you and struggled not to smile as you bounded up the steel steps with your violin case in your hand. The bus had been revamped on the inside with a small and intimate group of leather recliner chairs in the front with a television on a wall, a short area of cabinets with a microwave and small fridge, a tiny bathroom with a shower and toilet and sink. There was real dark wine carpet and with the heavily tinted windows, it felt private and plush.

You flopped onto the first recliner and kicked up the footstool. “Hey—we aren’t going anywhere until we all get seated.” He settled his pouch beside the chair and fumbled with the seatbelts. “So what’s your name?”

He smiled—hopefully it wasn’t as stiff and artificial as he felt—and said, “Genji.”

“Genji,” you repeated, as if you were tasting wine on your tongue. “Well, then Genji, we’re going to be on the road for a while, so get comfortable.”

The caravan of busses rumbled and began to rumble down the highway. You were silent as you watched out the window for what must have been about an hour, before you turned back to him. “So who are you, Genji?”

“Nani?” His cheeks went red and he tried again. “I am sorry—what?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly at him. “It’s okay. Aiko and Chichi are trying to teach me some Japanese.” You shrugged. “I know how to order a dinner. Maybe get a hotel room. But my dream is to go tour Japan, so I wanted to know a little at least.”

“Aiko?”

“Aiko is the one with the white guitar and Chichi is the one who plays all the instruments.”

“Ahh.”

“So who are you?”

He gave a small snort of laughter. “Your new security guard.”

“Angel’s replacement?”

“Hai.”

You nodded and stared out the window for a while longer. “So... you’re Angel’s replacement. You walk like you’re military and you keep scanning around like you’re expecting ninjas to fall out of the sky.”

“Not military.” He shrugged. “Ninjas? Only if they have drones or planes.”

You gave him a confused stare for half a second before you laughed. “I guess.” After another few moments and the bus turned onto an even larger highway. “So, we are on tour and we’ll be in the busses for the majority of the travel time. We stop for three meals—breakfast and lunch and dinner—and then an afternoon tea time. You can go to just about any bus you want and we have games and movies when we don’t practice.”

He nodded at you. “I see. And the stops?”

“We call between the busses and vote on a restaurant.” You leaned the recliner further back. “This first leg we will be in the bus and on the road for about eighteen hours before we get to the town. We’ll be in a Holiday Inn for a siesta until we go on stage. Three nights there, and then we will go on to the next one.”

Hanzo nodded. “And what do you do?”

“Me? I practice. Between lunch and dinner, we’ll do a virtual meeting and play—so you’re guaranteed to be sick of my music by the time we get back.” You laughed. “And I tend to get bored, so I end up composing while I’m stuck here.”

He let that comment pass and then spoke again. “And why are you only now hiring security?”

You sighed impatiently. “I had a bunch of Internet freaks start to brigade my online pages. Finally, it got really disgusting—guys demanding that I show my... my breasts, guys threatening to rape me, threatening to find my hotel. We had an idiot try to break into the block of rooms and that’s when we all voted and decided to hire some security.

“It’s just gotten worse and worse. We have to register under different names and in different locations. Once we had to switch hotels each night during a concert and it was a pain in the ass. Once a tech got roofied because our drinks were the same. So, we hired security to be sure that the equipment is safe and all my people are okay.”

Your eyes rolled towards him. “And now you’re in this mess with us. You get to hear us screeching and practicing over the computers. You get to deal with the drinks and the food and you might even been handling the reservations and booking rooms for the concerts.”

Hanzo nodded and stayed largely silent as the day progressed. The busses stopped for lunch at a truck stop and, true to your word, computers came out afterwards so that you all could practice and play together. Tea was around 1500 or 1600 and everyone trotted around that next stop to stretch their legs and get water or tea or small snacks. Dinner was another truck stop buffet and then terribly late, everyone rolled in to the hotel.

You snatched up two key cards and handed one to him. “Let’s get some shut eye. We’re going to be up at ten to go to the venue. Lunch will be provided there—and the matinee is at three. Performance at seven.” You winked as you grabbed a large denim bag and began walking to the elevator with a floppy hat over your head. “I get up and go to the gym from around eight until ten.”

“I will be there,” Hanzo muttered.

You only laughed. “Sure, you’ll be there tomorrow morning. And when we are just going to get to bed around midnight, you’ll see. We set up, but we take the instruments with us each night. I ended up losing a few people because we we do that.”

He automatically hit the button in the elevator and felt the customary whoosh as it rose. “I see.”

“We had some of the instruments damaged by ‘unknown persons’. So, we keep watch so that we don’t lose anything. One of the guitars ended up getting stolen and we found it on an online auction about a year later.” You glanced down at the keycard in your hand. “It’s a headache. If you need to switch out with someone and get a nap, let me know.”

“I will.”

The elevator dinged and he stepped forward. Immediately, you stepped forward as well and you both bumped shoulders. Unexpectedly, you laughed up at him. “Hey—I guess we’re on the same floor, eh, Genji?”

Hanzo nodded solemnly. Somehow it wasn’t a surprise that your room was next to his. You only gave him a nod and went into your room, leaving him staring at the anonymous door. He went into his room and checked in with the manager and security company. No one was to know that he was with Overwatch, but they were going to watch an online game to see if he logged in.

He started to play through the first tutorial when he heard a knock on his door. Going to the door and seeing you through the peephole, he opened the door to see you standing there. “How may I help you?”

“You’re supposed to be guarding me, right?”

“Y-yes. Of course.”

“Then come on over, Genji.”

To his surprise, you had a room service meal of salmon with salad set up on the minuscule hotel table along with a bottle of wine. You sat down on one of the two chairs and kicked your feet back. “Come on. I don’t bite.”

Hanzo gingerly took the other chair. “Are you...?”

You cut off a piece of the fish and waved it at him. “Well, as my bodyguard, don’t you need to taste my food? Make sure it’s safe.”

Hanzo was mightily surprised when you dipped the salmon in the creamy looking sauce and popped it into his mouth. Then, quite efficiently, you opened the bottle—a cheap wine with a twist top—and poured a bit into the glass. “Have some.”

He nodded sagely, feeling the barbell in his nose throb a bit. Taking the glass up, he sipped some. There was nothing unusual—it was a remarkably unremarkable bottle of white wine—and he nodded again before pouring you a glass.

“Everything seems fine,” he murmured.

You took a dainty sip of the wine and your eyes closed slightly. “And what do you think?”

“Of the wine?” You nodded with a pleased smile. “It is unremarkable. A nice balance between sweet and dry without being overly fruity. Probably only about two years old.”

You cut another piece of the salmon and pushed the bite to his lips. “And the salmon?”

“It is another piece of synthetic salmon. It is likely too warm to get really good salmon.” He reached for the napkin and patted it against his lips. “The sauce is reconstituted, but it looks like the salad is fresh.”

You took a bite and nodded. “It is. House made dressing, too.”

Hanzo nodded. “I would suggest trying the quinoa next. It is more likely to be freshly made since it cannot be cheaply replicated.”

You nodded in return. “So, what do you think? You heard me practice today.”

Hanzo shook his head. “You really don’t want me to critique—.”

“Sure. You’re the first one that’s heard the ‘Stars Over the Moon’ track.” You giggled and gulped the wine. “So, what did you think?”

“I think that I should... should leave you to rest.”

You giggled at him. “And I think that you are far too sober.” You poured a glass full of the cheap wine and pushed the glass back towards him. “Drink up.”

Somehow, you got him to drink the cup and you ordered two sweet deserts delivered to the room. He grinned when he saw the cart with the two slices of dark chocolate cake covered with berries. You set them out on the table and plopped down again.

“So, dessert is served,” you grinned. “And we should enjoy it, right? I mean we don’t get cake on the bus, right?”

“You miss, should drink your wine and get some sleep,” he snorted back at you. His whole body seemed loose and relaxed in a warm way. “And then we’ll get up and exercise tomorrow, if you wish.”

“Fine—party pooper,” you smirked. “But take the cake. If you don’t, I’ll eat them both.”

“What a trial,” he snorted back.

“Yeah—,” you sighed. You stretched in the fake leather chair. “—right up until I have to do another hour on the treadmill to work it off.”

Hanzo laughed and glanced around the room. You were smart—you had drawn the drapes and left nothing out where it could casually be inspected. You had left out the “Do Not Disturb” sign. You didn’t rely on the hotel closet and had locks on your luggage as well as a thick rubber wedge by your door to prevent anyone from just walking in—even with a keycard.

“I will see you tomorrow.”

The night was calm and quiet as he got back to his room right next to yours. Nothing untoward seemed to have happened as he got up the next morning. It was a good thing that your room was next to his because you were sneaking out just as he got out.

“Oh! You’re awake, Genji!” You grinned and twirled on your toes, showing him the slick, tight spandex yoga pants and bra you were wearing. “I was going to let you sleep in.”

“I would not be a good guard if I did not,” he muttered.

You led him down to the tiny exercise room, which boasted only two treadmills and an assortment of resistance bands and an oversized yoga ball. Hanzo snorted at the room in general before looking down at you. “This is not enough room for a proper workout.”

“It’ll be fine.” Immediately, you jumped onto a treadmill. “Besides, what choice do we have right now?”

Hanzo snorted angrily. “We can make do until the next hotel. But I hope that the next one will have enough room to swing a cat.”

You had already started the treadmill and jacked it up to the highest possible elevation. You were going like a demon, too, and he raced to catch up. At least you weren’t talking now, instead simply going through your run. Then you switched to pushups and sit-ups. He grinned, following your lead.

“You’re good,” you nodded. “Keeping up with me.” He flushed as your eyes went over his body. “I’m glad.”

He smiled at you. “There are a few things that I would suggest.” He shrugged. “If you would like to work a bit smarter.”

You had the grace to laugh at him and nod. “Sure. Let’s talk over breakfast.”

He nodded and followed you back to the rooms. He grabbed a shower and put on more of the ridiculous clothes before going down to the breakfast room. The band and techs had pushed tables together to chatter over pancakes and waffles and bacon and toast and absolute buckets of cheap black coffee. Everyone was in good spirits, laughing and talking, as you sat down and began drinking juice and coffee and nibbling some toast.

He had no idea that something like a concert took up so much time and energy. The buttresses and lights took the tech team a hours to set up and install. There was tuning and practice time as the microphones and speakers were set up. You walked through the performance and the arrangements—in effect giving an entire performance before even the matinee—and made minor tweaks to the choreography. Lunch was a brief affair of high-energy superfoods—almond butter toast, fruit smoothies and fruit salad, chia seed pudding—and bottle after bottle of water. The wardrobe was adjusted slightly and everyone but the security people—went to nap.

Then, the matinee. He had rarely seen an hour of more dedicated energy. He watched from backstage as everyone milled around like busy bees. There seemed to be no end to the details that were spontaneously problems that were solved all backstage without anyone in the audience—even in the front rows—knowing a single thing was wrong.

You were sweating as you came backstage after the matinee. He was glad that he had managed to grab a bottle of water to press into your hand. You graced him with a weary smile and a nod before guzzling the water like a field hand.

And then it all happened again for the main performance that night.

He knew this time to have a bottle of water on hand; as well as a towel and a candy bar. You were shivering as the curtains closed the final time and you grabbed his arm as you stumbled down the dark hallways out the back.

“Are you well?” he paused to ask.

You were shivering in your sweat and panting, but you managed to nod. “I guess. Just it takes a lot of work.”

He nodded sagely and slowed his pace. “We need to get you to the hotel.”

You nodded and followed him at your snail’s pace. You did not protest as he led you from the arena to the bus, to the hotel and up to your room. Finally, he paused, “I... do not have a key to your room.”

You grinned in your spangled denim and spandex and took the key from your own high cowgirl boots. Slowly, he led you inside and sat you down before running a hot bath. It was a good thing that he was next door—he could bring you some pain reliever pills from his own stash and a small scoop of epsom salts for your bath—and he came back to stand in front of you.

“There is a bath run and I will get some kind of dinner sent up,” he grunted. Your pout seemed to suggest something that he wasn’t sure he knew how to interpret. “I will stay until you get out.”

You offered no complaints, just staggered up and went to the bathroom. He ordered the quinoa plate with a salad—and a slice of chocolate cake. After all that—you were surely entitled to a sweet treat. He felt a little bad—a little guilty—when he got you finally settled into a track suit and in front of your meal.

“Hey, Genji, stick around. I... I don’t know—could you taste this?” You wrinkled your nose at the quinoa with its roasted vegetables. “I don’t know....”

He looked at you with a patient smile. “It’s good for you.”

“Try it? Please?”

Slowly he bent down and took a bite, ignoring the faint shiver of delight running down his spine at your satisfied grin. “As you can see, nothing is wrong with it.” Without waiting, he took a bite of the roasted vegetables and then the cake. “You will be fine.”

Your eyes glittered up at him with that smug little smile. “Are you sure that you won’t stick around?”

“I am....” He tried again to give you a patient expression, but if he didn’t get off his feet, he was sure he’d not move until morning and simply sleep standing up here like this. “You gave an excellent performance, but it is time to rest and relax and then sleep.”

“I’d love the company,” you smirked up at him. “Can’t you stick around? Stay with me?”

He shifted slightly as a bloom of desire filled his veins, hedging, “No, I am tired as well.”

You seemed to know that he was lying. “What if something happens? I mean.... I might... I might have a nightmare or something.”

“You will be fine. And I am going to be right next door.”

“But—?”

“No.”

“Fine!” you pouted.

“Eat and sleep,” Hanzo grunted. “I will see you in the morning.”

The next day was largely the same. Then the next. The days were somewhat in a pattern of getting up and doing things, but the nights were becoming... difficult. You paraded around in front of him in those skin tight yoga clothes in the morning and then in the skimpy costumes during the performances. You were almost embarrassingly at ease with him, just walking around like that and chatting with him as if he was....

As if he was... safe to be around.

As if he wasn’t captivated by your dance that seemed to be an exotic mating call just for him. As if he wasn’t certainly more dangerous than any other person you held in an orbit around you. As if he wasn’t armed every time that he lingered backstage. As if he wasn’t going to go to bed tonight and every night with his dick straining like an uncontrollable bulldog.

No, you smiled at him. You laughed with everyone, smiled at everyone, but it felt like you were really smiling at him. Like it meant just a little more when you bounced off the stage to take the cold water and chocolate from him. Like he wasn’t an old man already when you were so young. Like he wasn’t embittered and sour and jaded but was instead a younger man who could still hope and who could deserve and earn your affection.

He shook his head as he stared at the ceiling of the hotel room. Tonight, you had climbed out of the bath he had prepared and come out wearing only a towel of all things. He had shuddered as you had walked in front of him to grab your robe. He looked anywhere but where you were as he pulled the room service cart to where you were sitting on the chair. He had no patience left and had simply left you there.

His jeans felt like they were going to cut him in half by the time that he got back to his own room. He had no energy left and most especially not for your maddening behavior. His dick kept insisting that he could stay for just a few more minutes. His body—every rushing and pulsing vein and boiling inch of skin—kept him up, demanding that he do something already, rather than simply lay on the hotel bed and stare up at the rough textured ceiling.

That was not the job.

His job was to protect you and to keep an eye out for people who might be dangerous. His job was to be a bodyguard. He kept reminding himself of that. People were depending on him to do his job and do it with his usual excellence. He was not supposed to even be in your room at all, let alone lusting after you like this.

The next day was the last performance at this location. He was sure he was glad about that, but what it would mean to be locked up in the bus for hours, he couldn’t say. What was certain was that he absolutely could not be sitting there in those deep leather chairs for hours with his dick straining his pants like this. Even his abominable denim pants wouldn’t hide that.

He met you for the workout, the entire crew for breakfast, then everyone went to do the initial setup and practice. The performance was uninteresting now that he had seen it several times. Even your encore was borderline boring after seeing it so many times.

Not that his body was listening to his sage counsel that he should not be raging like a teenager as he watched.

The crowd was surging forward now, howling in appreciation of your performance. The audience seemed to be endless as he stood in the wings, waiting for your bows to end. The entire Denim Blue band was bowing, enjoying the applause before the curtain closed and the roadies began packing everything up—again.

The house lights rose as you bowed again and then waved at the crowd and then back at your band. Hanzo smirked at that—you gave lots of credit to your band and the last bow would include the roadies and the support people that normally would not be in the spotlight at all. He was quite happy to stay in the wings and out of sight, though, and ready with a bottle of water and a small chocolate candy bar.

You were backing away, though, giving the crew a second round of applause when he saw that faint flicker. The large man with the tight t-shirt and grungy denim pants and ragged cowboy hat and a strange long leather coat stared up at you with a star struck expression. Hanzo moved slightly so that his dark eyes could see right there in the tiny gap between the side curtain and the wall of the wings—as he always did—and for some reason that man made his skin prickle.

It was perhaps the way that he kept staring open mouthed at you. Perhaps it was that he could barely clap as he watched you and he seemed to be bellowing at you continually. Perhaps it was the way that the man kept inching closer and closer to the stage and perching right on the edge of his seat. No matter what it was, Hanzo kept watching him.

As you took a step back, the man leapt up. Hanzo was shocked to see him climb up that fast—that he could clamor over the edge of the stage. Hanzo let out a furious cry of his own and shot out from the wings.

The man was throwing a leg up on the stage and clawing the air frantically at your leg. Hanzo was barely aware of the rushing men trying to get through the aisles and to the stage, but he was right there. Your terrified screech was like spurs in his mind as he finally skidded to a stop in front of the man.

Hanzo had the candy bar and the bottle of water in his hands. The interloping oaf looked up at him, glowering and standing protectively between you and him. The stranger glared up and shouted, “What are you doing, Chink? Ain’t you got a yellow whore of your own?!” He stared up at Hanzo and snarled, “You get away from my Denim.”

Hanzo wanted to shout some insult back at him, but that man was still trying to climb the stage. Now there were several people milling at the edge of the stage—some trying to push him forward and some tugging him down—but when that man clawed again and his hand got dangerously close to your ankle, he saw red.

He snarled down at the man as that rabid fan clawed his way up to the stage. The man let the rumpled coat fall and Hanzo felt his blood run cold to see the wires and rectangular blocks duct taped to his back and sides. And all the ancestors look after him, he was sure he saw a strange device with a yellow button in the man’s hand. 

“Yeah—you yellow Chink bastard. You’d better back up.” The audience gasped and began to shriek as they crowded out the exits. “You yellow slant-eyed bastard, you’d better just back up.” Hanzo shook his head. “I’m Denim’s number one fan and—.” He turned to you and began babbling. “I am your number one fan and I’ve been to all your concerts and I’ve got all your recordings and... and I love you so much—.”

Hanzo took a steadying breath as the man began to wobble and seemed about to cry. He kept repeating over and over that he loved you. That he had seen you over and over. You kept trying to circle behind him and he was grateful for that. If only the man didn’t keep advancing, circling to get you like a wolf after a sheep.

“What are you backing up like that for, Denim?” the man bawled. “I ain’t gonna let no slant-eye get too close to you. We’re meant for each other!”

You shook your head—Hanzo could see that much out of the corner of his eye—and he felt a delicate brush of your hand on his back. He grunted, “You are rather odious. You should give up—.”

“I’m in love with you! And... and I want to marry you and... and I need ya!” The man waved the remote and Hanzo jumped. “I’ll die without you.”

That struck some cord in you and Hanzo felt you come out. You crept out and seemed to be shaking as you shivered in your thin costume. “Please... please—don’t do this....”

“I know you and I are meant for each other!”

Immediately, he jabbed the candy bar into the man’s eye. Then, with an efficient flip of his wrist, the bottle whirled in the air and he grabbed it like a plastic club. Swinging it, he smirked to hear it crack against the guy’s temple. Of course, the plastic shattered and ice cold water sprayed everywhere, but more importantly, it stunned him enough that the remote flew out of his hand.

Hanzo leapt forward and grabbed him, wrapping his arms around him. The man reeked and he couldn’t help but cough at the noxious smell from his clothes and hair. He was wrestling a manic bear and all he could do was cling to fistfuls of wires as he was thrown aside.

It was a precious amount of time, though. As Hanzo stumbled and teetered on the edge of the stage, the rabid fan pulled out a second remote with a red button. It seemed that time slowed to a crawl as he laughed and then jammed his thumb down on it. Whether anyone expected to be blown to pieces or not was anyone’s guess, but Hanzo was quite pleased to show the bundles of wires in his hands and scattered wildly around the stage.

Security flooded the stage as the crazed idiot realized—finally—he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Hanzo let out a nervous breath and wrapped his arms around you to hustle you off stage. You were rightfully shaking, sobbing into his denim coat as the cell phones and cameras came out and people recklessly shouted around ran back and forth. Thank goodness that the rest of the crew was already barricaded in the green room.

He took out his phone and jammed in a code to let headquarters know that a bomb threat had been made and neutralized as he led you through the barricades and security to the bus. It wasn’t the hotel—that would be better—but it was at least a place of relative privacy as the police began to swam in with flashing lights and batons.

“Don’t leave me, Genji,” you whimpered into his shoulder. “Don’t leave.”

“I am right here,” he murmured softly. “Sit in the chair for a moment.”

“No! I don’t want to be alone!”

He nodded as he kept a sharp lookout through the tinted windows. The manager and crew were being escorted to the other buses and police were starting to gather around. He guessed that they would be given a hasty escort to the hotel and in a few hours—after the crowd had been cleared and the auditorium swept for anything else—then there would be another police escort for the crew to get their gear. They’d be delayed for hours at least, and probably the next performance date would be canceled, but at least everyone was alive.

You were shaking in his arms as he led you to the back of the bus. The cabinets would give you a bit more privacy as he rummaged through them and found some teabags and mugs. He heated water in the microwave and dropped in the teabag. “Here. This will help.”

You nodded as you took the mug and cradled it in your hands. You were utterly pale—ghastly under the thick stage makeup—and the skimpy costume didn’t seem to be able to keep you warm. With a sigh, he took off the denim coat and wrapped it around you.

“You will be warm in a minute, kirenia,” he whispered. “Drink the tea.”

“He... he had a bomb!” You sobbed and the mug sloshed clumsily. “He. Had. A. Bomb!”

“I know, little one. He had a bomb. He will be taken away and the police will handle him.” He shrugged even though his breath caught in his throat. “You are safe.”

Suddenly, you laughed up at him. “I... I know that I’m safe with you.”

“Of course. Of course.” Hanzo sighed as he wrapped his arms around you. “You are safe here.”

“I.... You! You were—.”

He sighed at the inevitable knocking on the bus door. Of course. The police would want your statement. He looked down at you—you were a mess—and sighed. “Can you speak to the police?” Your eyes went wide and the makeup smudged all over your face. “I will be there, kirenia.”

“As long as you’re there,” you muttered as he took the mug away from you. “I don’t.... I just can’t—.”

He nodded and turned away, but you grabbed his wrist and wriggled under his arm. “Just stay close, huh, Genji?” He felt you shudder. “I hate talking to the police.”

He smiled down at you. “Really? An innocent little girl like you?”

“I hate talking to the police,” you whispered as you both staggered up to the front. “I hate... hate... hate—.”

“Shh... we will do this and be fine.” Hanzo finally felt a thread of something in his head. “If you wish, I will be with you the entire time.”

You nodded frantically, your thick makeup smudged and smeared. He sat you down in one of the comfortable leather chairs and stepped forward to the steep, steel steps and the folding door.

“Good evening, sir,” the policeman sniffed. His nose stuck up in the air slightly and he seemed—despite Hanzo being up on the steps above him—to somehow be looking down his nose. “I am Officer Willoby and I am here to take everyone’s statements and to ask a few questions.”

He nodded hesitantly, unsettled at the officer’s tone. “I will give you my statement out here.” He raised a sable brow and bristled at the soft snort of a reply. “The lady needs a few minutes.”

“I will need to see her as well,” Willoby snapped.

“Of course,” Hanzo agreed.

“First, could I please see some identification?”

Hanzo handed over his wallet with its faked identification listing him as “Genji Yomata”. He answered the basic questions—who he was, what he was doing there, what he was doing backstage, what his occupation was. He had been arrested a few times and been a “person of interest” in crimes others had done, and so none of this was a surprise, except for the sniffing condescending tone.

“And is there anything else, Mr. Yomata?” The officer sucked in a heavy breath and Hanzo would have sworn he saw the officer’s eyes roll. “You were hired as security and simply... saw... the man in the audience from the wings. You became alarmed and when the man began to try to climb on to the stage, you went out to stop him. Then you wrestled with him, assaulting him with... a candy bar—which broke his nose—and a bottle of water.”

“Yes.”

“And then you claim that you simply brought her here.”

“Yes. We came here immediately afterwards so that she could have some privacy.”

“And you... you haven’t spoken to anyone else?”

“No. I have not spoken to anyone else—just her.”

“I see. Well, I will have to corroborate all of your story.”

“What are... you saying?”

“Well, I will have to corroborate that you aren’t... well, you know.” He gave a smirk. “And you allege that the man said racial things to you?”

“Yes,” Hanzo bristled.

“I see,” the officer muttered, scribbling things down on his notepad. “And are you and the... the singer—?”

“‘Denim’ is her stage name.”

“Ahh, yes, Miss Denim. Are you two a couple?”

As nosy, intrusive questions went, it made Hanzo snort. “No. She and I are not a couple.”

“And yet you are here with her, in private.”

Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest. “I brought her here in order to get some privacy and so that she could recover out of the public spotlight.” He snorted and jutted his chin slightly. “She is understandably upset and—.”

“Yes. Yes. Upset and distraught and I’m sure about to faint.”

Hanzo blinked slowly. “You... do not seem to be convinced.”

The officer snorted and tapped his pencil on his notepad rapidly. “Well, this is hardly my first rodeo.”

“What?”

“You would not be the first group to stage an incident in order to make the news.” He shrugged. “Any publicity is good publicity to you people, right?”

Hanzo snorted back a growl. “I do not think that—.”

“And your alleged attacker is right now sobbing that he made the alleged bomb out of boxes and tape to look real, but that had no genuine threat.” He shrugged lightly. “Just a bunch of wires and paper tape around pencil boxes and duct tape.” The officer nodded at the uniformed police coming out of the next bus. “You have accused him and he has had the debatable good taste to accuse you. Oh, and the girl who he says ‘leads him on’ and was cheating on him... with you.”

Hanzo’s arms dropped and his fists went to his sides. “She was not involved in any plot.”

“Oh, yeah? And how would you know? If you have been here only since the start of this tour?”

Hanzo flushed—what was he supposed to say to that? “I have spoken with her at length—.”

“Yeah.... sure thing. Whatever you say.” The officer snapped the page to turn it over in his notebook. “Look... don’t go anywhere.” He waved at one of the other officers. “I’ll be talking to the lady.”

Hanzo shook his head. “I have already—.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“I am her personal security,” Hanzo snarled. “I will be there for questioning.”

“Look, are we even sure that this isn’t some plot? I mean, just because you don’t know about some hair-brained scheme for some strung out rock and roller to make an infamous name for herself doesn’t mean that there wasn’t one.” He gave Hanzo a conspiratorial chuckle. “Dames—right? Rock and roll party until the sunrises and conveniently just before you all leave town?”

“Look, why are you so sure she is behind something?”

“Like I said, cowboy—not my first rodeo. You all bring in rock-and-roll and wild parties and drugs and shit. It’s not the first time that some wild band has brought in some wild times.”. The cop sighed. “Look, let me in and out and we’ll mosey on along.”

Hanzo growled, but had no choice but to let the officer in. After a few moments, he heard the sound of angry shrieking and was utterly surprised to see the officer all but fall out of the opening bus doors. Your curses were electric and hoarse as you slammed the doors behind him.

The officer snarled and hunched over to go back when he saw Hanzo standing there. Instead, he rolled his eyes and snapped his notepad shut. “Fine. Whatever. She’s lawyered up with some hotshot Omnic. You both get back to your hotel and stay there until I can figure out what we need to do next.” He tossed his head. “If anything.”

“Fine,” Hanzo growled.

He watched as the police left. Finally, the band manager appeared again, talking on a slender phone and gesturing wildly. The roadies staggered out of the last bus, groaning as they went back into the auditorium to collect the instruments and equipment. He stayed there, watching as they went back and forth and began to break down the show.

Finally, the bus doors behind him opened up and he heard your quiet, “Come in, Genji.” There was a pause. “I mean... please come in.”

He softened immediately. His hands loosened and his shoulders rolled lightly as he spun and began climbing back up into the bus. “What is it, kirenia?”

You staggered down to the aisle to your chair. Flopping down, you let out a puff of breath. “What a fucking mess.”

He crept closer. “You look terrible.” He flushed and wiped his face with his hand. “I... I apologize. That is not what I should say.” He carefully sat down on the arm of the chair beside you. “I mean... you are... undoubtedly tired and stressed.”

“No shit.”

He waved to the bathroom in the back of the bus. “I will go find our driver if you want to get a quick shower.” You nodded slowly, tears running down the smeared makeup on your cheeks. “I will even take a while so that you can get something on.” He turned even more red as he realized what he said. “I mean—something warmer. Covered.”

You gave him another quick nod and whispered, “Okay. I mean—if it is not a problem?”

“Yes, well—I think you would be more comfortable if you had something... more on.” He gave an awkward sort of chuckle and rubbed his cheeks again, flushed to realize he was embarrassed. “It might help you... feel more in control.”

“Okay.”

Hanzo sighed and gave you a strained smile. “I will... take my time—if you lock the door behind me.”

“Okay.”

He watched you slink out of the chair and go to the cabinets and get a large towel and some loose knit clothes. You didn’t even look up at him as he climbed off the bus and you locked the closed bus doors behind him. He did take his time—only about ten minutes since the drivers all were hanging around the back bus—before he returned.

The drive back to the hotel was silent as you were curled up in your chair, staring blankly out the window at the shadows going past. He tried to give you mental space—tried to make it not look like he was watching every breath you took—but maybe you knew anyway. You curled up into a tight knot on the chair and you looked like a frightened schoolgirl in your sweatshirt and sweatpants.

You could barely make it to the back door of the hotel before your knees started knocking. Even then you could barely get your keycard out and he took it from your fumbling fingers before you dropped it. Waving it at the door lock, he was somehow still surprised when you wriggled under his arm again. Your arms went around his waist with a soft little cry and locked there.

So, with steady and small steps, he led you to your room. Again, he waved the card at the reader and pulled the door open for you. You gave him no protest as he led you to the bed, as he ordered a steak dinner with baked potato, steamed broccoli and a house salad, as he ran a hot bath and poured another scoop of his epsom salts in it. He led you to the steaming bathroom with patience and then turned around to leave.

“Where are you going!?” you demanded.

He only handed you some of the towels and a washcloth. “I am going to go over to my room for a few moments. I will return before your meal gets here and you are welcome to lock the door behind me.” He raised an eyebrow and gave you a strained smirk. “I am right next door.”

You sputtered for a moment and then snarled, “I’m getting adjoining rooms next time.”

He gave you a look of confusion. Then, he seemed to stiffen and imperceptibly shudder. “I suppose that is your prerogative.” He shrugged again. “I am going to get some of my tea and a pair of sweatpants so that I can get comfortable.”

“Why?!”

He nodded slowly. “I thought you would be more comfortable with me sitting up with you for a while.”

That made you smile. The first one since the performance and he felt something lift in his heart. You whispered, “I’d... like that.”

“I will be back, then, in a few minutes.”

Hanzo sucked in a hasty breath. His feet hurt with those damn boots and the denim jeans were going go the minute he could toss them. His coat was in the bus—and this whole costume was ridiculous. He needed to clean the piercing too—something he did each night after you were done with him.

He shook his head as the door to your room closed behind him. For some reason ‘after you were done with him’ seemed unreasonably melancholy. This was a job, a mission, he reminded himself. He shucked off the jeans and top, grabbing the first comfortable things he could find, along with his small box of tea bags, the bag of epsom salts, two knives hidden in the sweatpants and a small book.

His dick wasn’t listening.

He could faintly hear you splashing—maybe getting in the tub—through the shared wall and it made his body rigid. He could just about picture you with only the warm water covering you. He had thought about very little else, it seemed, except what he’d like to do to you and with you in that hotel bed. In some small way, he could understand being driven crazy by you, feeling like those soft songs and words of love and devotion were for him alone.

His imagination was going mad and taking his body with it.

He took out the small gourd of sake and stared at it. He had considered ordering up a bottle of wine, but the hotel’s room service was probably strained with putting together something edible. Certainly their room service menu did not offer any good suggestions. Besides, what was he to say? “Would you get drunk with me” sounded creepy, didn’t it? Still, everyone said that alcohol could soften the raging dick he seemed to be afflicted with. And with the next few hours of soothing you, he needed all the help he could muster.

So, with the few things he gathered, he changed into his comfortable clothes and made his hasty way back to your room. You hadn’t locked the door behind him, he noted as he crept in. He could hear you still splashing slightly in the bathroom—damn cheap hotel walls—as he tossed his things into one of the chairs.

Except for the gourd. He was somehow sure he would need that soporific sake before the night was over, and he cradled the worn smooth bottle in his hands as he sat in the other chair to wait.

You were quiet except for a soft muttering or humming just barely over the water splashing. He opened the book to stare at the pages. He knew already that he wasn’t reading—that he wasn’t seeing a single printed word—but it helped steady his nerves that he at least appeared to be doing something other than imagining you in the water.

Finally, there was a knock on the door. Instantly alert, he went to the peephole and saw an anxious and uniformed girl with the usual room service cart. Still, he called through the door, “Who is it?”

“Rhonda from room service,” was the prompt reply.

He touched the hidden knives and opened up the door. Just enough to see the cloches over the plates and a silver bucket with a bottle of wine in it. “I...do not think—.”

She pulled out a paper ticket and handed it to him. “See? The order was changed at the last minute. The lady said that you would need some dinner too, so she changed it.” She gave a nervous smile. “I mean, she said you would object but you both needed dinner.”

Hanzo snorted with a smile. “I suppose.”

“So, here is your room service and the bottle of wine that you requested.”

“Very well,” he nodded.

Minx.

He took the cart into the room and examined it carefully. There was a pair of fresh towels, two identical steak dinners, a slice of cake and the wine. No bombs. No creepy letters or paperwork. Billed to the room along with a healthy tip which apparently warranted a smiling faced note from Rhonda along with a cheery “Thanks—enjoy your evening” written in purple ink on the receipt.

Minx.

There was a soft splashing and then he heard some scuffling before the bathroom door opened. “Was that dinner?”

“It is—apparently dinner for two?”

You gave him a hesitant nod. “I see that Rhonda got my message.”

“Indeed. Dinner for two and a bottle of wine.”

You gave him an almost shy look as you walked in front of him in your sweats and took the one free chair. You seemed... suddenly sad as you looked up at him. “I... I’m sorry if it offended you.” You tugged a plate closer to you and poked at the salad. “I guess.... I mean....” Your voice kept fading out. “I thought that it was going to be the one nice thing today that we’d... eat together.”

Hanzo looked over at you. “It was... most thoughtful of you.”

You both ate with a limp, halfhearted enthusiasm, sipping tap water in the plastic wrapped hotel cups. Nothing seemed to taste good to Hanzo, just sort of bland nothingness. The steak and sides might have been synthesized or organic or overcooked pigeon and he could not have told the difference.

He was poking the small piece of gristle from the side of the steak with his fork when he saw you roll your eyes and snatch up the bottle of wine. He jumped a little to see you all but upend the bottle and pour your cup full of a white wine. Then, you dropped the bottle back into the bucket.

He carefully set down his fork as you took a noisy gulp of the wine. “Are you certain you are... well?”

You scowled at him. He shook to see that your eyes were rimmed with red as you stared right at him. “Just fine.” You took another noisy gulp. “You?”

He sat back in the chair. “I am... well.”

“Sure. Bombs and freaks like that happen all the time around you, so it’s no big deal, right?”

He could not resist smiling. “Not... generally.”

“How can you sit there so cool and not be affected?!” You finished the cup and shoved it aside on the table. “So, who the hell are you, anyway, Genji? This isn’t normal.”

“I am... your security person.” He carefully sat back. “As I was told, this is until your regular security person comes back.”

“Angel.” You glowered at the bottle of wine and then shoved the half-finished plate aside. “He’s a good... good friend.” The awkward silence filled the room. “I needed a good friend and someone to keep an eye out, and that’s what he was.”

Hanzo nodded. “I see.”

“So, you know about me. You know who I am.” You pouted at him. “I mean, you’ve practically lived with me.”

“What is this about?”

“You don’t believe him, do you? You don’t believe that I’m some kind of secret slut that leads men on in my performances or something?”

Hanzo thought for a moment. “No. Of course not. You do a wonderful performance and your music is... inspired.” He took another shaky sip of water. “The fact that one person is so mentally ill that they would pretend to have bombs should not stop you from doing what you are so... so good at.”

You shuddered violently and tears filled your eyes. “Really?”

Hanzo nodded, feeling that shuddering gap between what he could tell you and what he needed to keep hidden. “I think that you are a gifted performer.”

You curled up in the chair and poked your cup idly without replying. He picked up the bottle and made a show of looking at the label. “Do you like wine?”

“No,” you snarled at him. “I just thought that.... maybe we could.... Hell.” He rocked back as you leapt up and whirled around to stare at nothing around the room. “Whatever. We’re stuck here until the police are done.”

He rose to his feet and you jumped to stare at him with wide eyes and trembling lips. Instantly, he felt alarmed and all of his muscles jumped to attention. The whole room went still as you stared in a silent sort of tension that was not quite terror or alarm but was not peace either. His senses told him that there was nothing to be truly alarmed about, but your trembling lip and wide eyes made him feel alarmed anyway.

“You are alarmed,” he murmured far softer than he felt. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. It’s been a bad day and I’m really tired.” You walked to the window but you didn’t open the heavy drapes. “We’re going to be losing out on the next town because we have to refund the tickets for at least the first night since we’re stuck here.”

Hanzo sighed and nodded. Finally, he felt compelled to ask, “Is there anything that I can do to help?”

“Nah,” you snapped. “Just... just....”

“Would you like me to stay outside your door tonight?”

You seemed surprised when you looked at him. “You’d... you’d do that?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “It would be fine.” He looked at your shocked face. “If it would make you feel better.” He cocked his head. “What about the rest of the crew?”

You sighed. “I guess.” Your face went red. “I mean.... I guess for tonight. If it’s what you want.”

He sighed patiently. “What about the rest of the band? The rest of the crew?” You had purple shadows under your eyes and strained little lines around your mouth. When you reached for your cup again, your hands were shaking. “What if I put in a few calls?”

“Calls?”

“To a few of my... friends. I might be able to get some people to watch over everyone.”

Your eyes seemed dull as you looked up at him. “I guess that would be good.”

He nodded. “We should get everyone together on the same floor at least.”

You did recognize that as a good idea. “Sure. But tomorrow, huh? It’s like three in the morning.”

“Two thirty eight.”

“And the roadies have been up for a long time.”

“They need to rest, but afterwards, we will move everyone together. I will make some calls.”

Your pout turned... he would have sworn that you turned sultry. “What about... me?”

“I will be just outside the door the entire night.”

You shook your head. “I mean... couldn’t you just... be in here?”

Hanzo stiffened, his nostrils flaring and his whole face tight. “I would not want to intrude on your privacy.”

He shifted uncomfortably as your eyes went wide and soft and then shifted down in a sad pout. “Oh. Okay.”

Hanzo nodded and picked up the box of tea. “Here. Have a hot cup of tea. I will go outside and be out of your room.” Your pale face went red. “I mean... right at your door.”

Without waiting for a reply, he leapt up and scrambled out of the door. As soon as he shut it behind him, his knees knocked together and he just about fell down. That raging cock between his legs had heard everything you had said and manipulated it until it was what he wanted to hear. Of course, it was not possible for anything to happen—impossible for you to want an old man like him, to want an ex-con, to want a gangster. After the mission was over, you would be a pleasant and boiling hot memory, but that was all this could ever be.

He got his phone and began making some calls. There would be a few other people keeping an eye on things until the fury died down. Perhaps that idiotic cowboy could make himself useful. Certainly your own people were good—but that wasn’t the same as some professional security personnel. Everyone being together on the same floor would be helpful and certainly it seemed that everyone could use a rest after this disaster.

Ten minutes later, he was sure that this had to be some kind of terrible karma coming to haunt him. The commanders would not approve additional Overwatch personnel. The next stop was one of the sensitive tour stops and they didn’t want to alert anyone with additional people and jeopardize everything. The wouldn’t even do anything other than put in a request to the local police.

He growled as he put away his phone.

It was only 4:10.

He was stuck here on this abominable carpet—olive green, harvest gold, and teal in an improbable cabbage vine—just outside your door. There was nothing to do since the whole hotel was knocked out for the night. Nothing to see or watch. He could perhaps call Genji—the real Genji—but who knew what disaster that would bring if someone was watching?

You were asleep. You had to be. He was exhausted from simply watching you—except for that raging pulse in his groin. He could get a chair. He should get a chair, since he’d be up all night. So he did grab a chair from his room, sitting in front of your door, and waiting for his body to realize that nothing was going to happen.

Nothing happened. All. Night. Long.

By morning—well, by 9:00 a.m., anyway—he was ready to admit defeat. Apparently, everyone was taking it easy and very few had been up. He had seen a roadie and the drummer who simply looked at him and then at each other and then gone another direction. Fine. Let them do whatever they pleased.

He called another security guard to watch your door. Enough was enough at his age and he was no good if he couldn’t see straight. It took forty-five minutes to get relief, but at least he could finally get to bed. And surely, after all that, surely he could drift into immediate sleep.

But even then, his last thought was of you.

The police arrived at eleven. Actually, at 10:55, because that was when you called his room and the phone would blink the clock when it rang. He staggered up and prayed for hot tea as he pulled on a shirt he would not have used as a dust rag back on base, and then got to your room.

The same obnoxious Willoby was there, asking what seemed to be identical questions. Where were you. What happened. Were you sure that this was the man who jumped on the stage. Were you going to press charges. Were you sure you hadn’t known about this beforehand.

Hanzo snorted at the overdone rigmarole. Willoby still seemed to believe that you had some hand in the plot, but at this point he seemed to be marginally more polite. Hanzo simply stood in your doorway, waiting.

“Well, ma’am—I think this wraps things up for right now.” Willoby snapped closed the notepad. “I mean... stick around in town for the next day or two, in case there are further questions.”

You looked sourly at the officer. “And what has happened to—?”

“To Alan?” Willoby stuck his pen back into his uniform pocket. “He has been released on bond.”

“What?!” you screeched.

“He was charged and released on bond pending trial.” He nodded in a blank way. “He is entitled to a fair and impartial trial and you should be hearing from his lawyers today.”

“What?!”

“Look, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Just cool your jets and stick around town.”

Hanzo scowled. “I believe that she is—.”

“Now, don’t get started, tough guy,” Willoby sniffed. “There’s no room in this town for a bunch of hippy, drugged out Beatle wannabes spreading drugs and pornography and shit like that. We’re a good, God-fearing town and don’t need you all causing trouble.”

Hanzo crossed his arms and stared at the officer. “We have had no problems—.”

“Yeah. Alan said that he was—.”

Hanzo let his voice drop to a low growl. “You do recognize that he was the aggressor?”

“Oh, hell—he was—.”

“—Committing a crime. How nice that you recognize that.” He waved reassuringly at you. “We will expect the usual paperwork and your usual... professionalism in handling this crime by remaining fair and investigating this as a crime.” Willoby looked like he was going to say something, but Hanzo talked right over him. “The crime did not end as badly as it could have, but quite obviously, this could have ended differently.”

“Well, I don’t think—.”

“Exactly. I did not think that anyone would go to such extremes during a public performance, either.” He shrugged lightly. “We were both wrong.” He walked cooly to stand over you, the very picture of a concerned bodyguard. “It is good for everyone that this did not end as badly as it could have. There could have been a real bomb. As it is, we have simply an overzealous fan and some window dressing.”

“Exactly my point,” the officer nodded with a short smile.

“But we must still consider it a crime.”

“Well, now....”

“Thank you for handling this like a crime.” He put a firm hand on your shoulder and smiled down at your pale face. “It is very important that we settle this serious matter.”

He made a point of showing the officer to the door, with lots of nodding and smiling and insisting that it was a crime. The policeman really had no choice with such steady prodding and even insistence except to exit with a minimum of fuss.

Hanzo shut the door firmly and came back to you. “Are you all right? He was not—.”

“No. I’m fine.” You pouted. “I don’t think he will ever investigate this seriously. What will I tell everyone?”

“They were all there. They know the truth.”

“Yeah—that some jerk who knows everyone here will totally throw off all of the planning and months of work getting this tour together.”

“It will be fine. We will work it out.”

You nodded slowly, your eyes closing against the frustrated tears. “I hope so. Look—I’ve already told everyone that we are stuck here. To take it easy until the next step.”

“I predict that we will be told that we should move on soon.” Hanzo shrugged. “He does not want lots of publicity that he is unfair or unprofessional.”

To your surprise, he was right. A few officers came by with a few papers of the court date and the list of the charges and the contact information of the public defender. Then you were free to go. Thankfully, everyone was itching to go and loaded up the equipment and the buses as fast as lightning.

He was in line to be in the middle bus with the band when you called out, “Hey, Genji! Come on.” You waved frantically and he turned red as everyone stopped to hoot and cheer. “We’re up here.”

Hanzo sighed and tried to hide the inward flinch. It shouldn’t bother him. Genji was a common name that simply happened to be his brother’s. Actually, he should be glad that everyone did know him by a wrong name. He should be embarrassed at the hooting and jeers, rather than distinctly glad and excited that you were calling him close.

The drummer hooted and pushed his shoulder, “Go on, man. She’s digging you.”

He looked up and then back at you. “I should not intrude—.”

“Oh, hell. She will be going to leave you behind if you don’t!”

He felt red rush to his face and he slowly turned away. He would offer you a chance to have privacy. To rest. He would get himself under control and would not make it awkward by showing you the raging lust that he was fighting. That would make this only harder, not to mention disgust you.

He had a hundred reasons that he shouldn’t be moving to sit in the main bus with you. He was too old. He was all wrong—a seasoned and bitter older man rather than a young and law-abiding buck. He was on a mission. He shouldn’t be.... 

There were a hundred reasons to stay away. And you simply waved at him with your weary smile and a small bag of personal stuff over your shoulder, for him to forget all of them and climb into the front bus.

To his surprise, you simply said, “Hey! About time.” You climbed up and flopped down in one of the chairs. “God—I am so glad to get moving.”

He gave you a short nod and sat down in one of the other chairs. He put his bag down on the carpeted floor and then pushed the seat back to lay flat. Your eyes were watching him, he could feel it, as he closed his eyes and pulled a floppy denim coat over himself. Hopefully you were watching his face and not the lump in his lap. With what he hoped was a correctly careless gesture, he pulled the cowboy hat over his face.

The bus had been moving and reached the highway by the time that you said, “Hey, Genji—are you awake?”

He had not slept. Every time that he tried, he imagined that you were right next to him. He couldn’t help it any more than water could help flowing down a hill. His body had to be almost rigid as a board.

Instead, he made a show of yawning and rolling underneath the coat and hat. His eyes opened slowly and he looked at you. “I suppose.”

“Hey... Genji, could I ask you a question?”

He smiled. “That was a question.”

“Okay, then, can I ask you like four questions?” Your smirk was impish. “Then I’ll let you sleep.”

He made his show of yawning again and tipped up the cowboy hat. “All right.” Slowly, he let the seat rise and sit up. “What is it?”

“Okay... question. Can we....?”

“What?” You were adorable, looking up at him like a mischievous kitten waiting to roll and grab whatever tickled your tummy. Who knew where you got that fuzzy blanket, but as it folded over your curves, you looked like a timid bunny or kitten. It was entirely different than when Genji had crept into his room and asked question after question to delay bedtime. “Do you need something?”

Your face went red. “Could I...? Could I tell the manager we get only one room at the next stop?” That made him shoot straight up, despite the stiff denim of his pants. Your eyes went wide you and you retreated deeper into the fuzzy blanket. “Or... just adjoining rooms?”

“Really?! What about—? What are you—?!”

“Okay. Okay.” Your eyes went wide and anxiously dark. “Forget I said anything.”

He slumped back down in the seat. “I would not.”

There was another long pause and he finally pulled out his book and settled it to an open page on his lap. The miles were rolling past and he was glad that this seemed to pass. Temptation was rolling through him as he imagined not a pair of discrete beds, but a singular large one.

“Genji—could I ask you a question?”

“That would be your second question of your four,” he muttered sourly. Sour that he could not get to where he wanted from here. “What is it, kirenia?”

“What will happen next? I mean, with that crazy guy.” You rolled and took out your phone. He could easily see that you were viewing local news and the reports about the fake bomber. “I don’t want to ever go through that again.” You scrunched down in the blanket as if you were suddenly cold. “I’ve never been so scared.”

“I will be there.”

“I know you will be. But... I don’t want to do that again. I never want to feel that frightened again.”

“I will be right there. As I was last time.”

You nibbled your lip and looked up at him. Another long few moments went by before you burst out, “Do you play an instrument?”

That made him laugh. “Only a very long time ago.”

Suddenly, you were facing him and all wide eyed with curiosity. “What did you play?”

“A violin.”

Now you were sitting up, the blanket falling slightly. “Really? We could use that in some of our pieces—.”

“A long time ago, kirenia. It would be... horrific now.” He shrugged and went back to staring at the open book pages. “Despite my... expensive tutoring, I was only mediocre.” 

You pulled out a wad of paper from your bag and thrust the jumbled music score at him. “Could you practice? Could you... just try?”

He looked over the notes. It was rapid, but not complicated. “I... would prefer to stay in the background. Besides, I am only here until Angel returns.”

You nodded but that enthusiastic smirk was still on your face. “I have talked to my manager and... and we have room for one more. If you want a full time job, we have... an extra security spot.”

“Really?”

“Just opened up.” Your grin was infectious and tugged his mouth up. “I swear. But we’re running out of room and the new bus won’t be here for another month.”

“Four?”

“Yeah. Four busses now—for all the techs and band members and stuff. Kind of weird since it started with me alone on my channel online.” You thought for a moment and added. “We do all right. The accommodations are a little odd at times—hotels all the time and we’re performing a lot of the holidays—but... we’re a good group. We’re never going to be like bazillionaires, but everyone has health insurance and I try to be sure that everyone has time with family.” You cocked your head at him. “If... if you want to go back home, I will do what I can.... Is it that... your worried about being with your family?”

He choked on a chuckle. “No. There is... no family.”

“Oh,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was... a long time ago.” His voice became a low rumble. “But that is not what... I am saying.”

You pouted and sat your chair up. “Could you tell me what it is? I mean, I’m willing to work with you. I... I like you.”

“What?!”

“Okay, so now it’s weird, but I like you.” Words flowed out in a riotous mess as your cheeks heated up. “I know that I haven’t been the... the best boss or whatever, but I really... like you.”

“You... cannot,” he whispered slowly. Every muscle locked into place. “It... would not.... I am sure that—.”

Your eyes went wide and your pale face said everything he never wanted to hear. “Oh. I see.” You curled up and looked out the window with that dead eyed stare that seemed to say you weren’t seeing the thick forest of highway trees. Finally, you tossed over your shoulder, “I’m sorry for making it... so terrible.”

Your voice cracked and it seemed to echo in his cold heart. In fact, the whole trip was silent up until lunch. Everyone stopped at a truck stop and he carefully ducked to the table with the roadies. Their discussion was about speakers and feedback and the next venue and nothing that made his pulse race. He ate the not-bad blue plate special and listened to the gossip and technical details. Then, after lunch, he sat in the back bus with the techs and watched them play whatever game they were playing. And, when they came up against dragons—laughably inaccurate dragons—he simply smiled.

But it marked a change in the usual routine. He was glad to see that everyone was on the same floor, but they were still spread out. You did not ask to see him, did not ask to eat with him. You did not offer to work out with him.

He was... alone, now.

Another day of traveling began with everyone loading up into the busses. He sat with the band at first. It was an absolute joy to hear familiar languages again—Korean and Japanese and Chinese—and he was able to hear the band teleconference with you and play. The songs were completely in his head now—he was sure to hear them in his sleep—but they were still beautiful.

Your laughter—something small that made you all stop and laugh together before starting the song from the top—was music all its own.

Another hotel, another hallway, and he stared at the generic, closed door. At least this was their destination—one of the riskiest venues where you had generously opened your concert to military and first responders. He waved the key card and the door opened and he could only see a bleak and empty room beyond it.

He was able to take off the denim and flannel and put on comfortable clothes. He was able to take a hot shower and climb out naked and hard as a rock. Then he went back in and turned on the water as cold as he could get it. His teeth chattered and his muscles cramped as he climbed out again and picked back up the damp towel.

Nothing seemed to be right, though. He could lounge on the bed and stare at his book, but he could not rest. He could not even think clearly. Nothing stuck in his head and nothing seemed clear. He should be exhausted. He should be in bed, grateful to be going to sleep. He should be resting and refreshed for tomorrow.

Nothing.

He finally got some sleep. A little in the wee hours of the morning. Basically when the television station stopped and the flag appeared and a tinny, awful recording played before it all went to static.

It was impossible.

He staggered down to breakfast with the crew. The roadies would be setting up immediately and the stage would be secured then. Coffee—he drank lots of coffee. He kept drinking coffee and then stumbled in the high-heeled boots to the auditorium. The equipment was rolled in on carts and furniture doilies, and it seemed like everyone was going everywhere to check and double check. If he had any energy, he would have been impressed, but as it was, he was covering two exits, making sure everyone was together.

At lunch, he was drinking coffee. Again, he refilled and refilled his cup and hoping for energy. At last some of it seemed to be kicking in, and he felt moderately able to function. He called on his legendary discipline to stay upright. No one would be able to tell that he wasn’t at full capacity.

The matinee performance was brilliant as always. He didn’t know how on earth you managed it—to have that much energy and passion after a full day of travel and rehearsals and on and on. He kept watch from the shadows, the wings. You smiled as if you didn’t have a care in the world, spinning and twirling and singing and lifting his heart and making him smile under the cowboy hat.

The band was doing their bows when a fan pressed too close to the stage. Instantly alert, he watched as the floor security pulled him back. Hanzo growled and a roadie ran to him with a frantic finger in front of his lips. For a split second, his attention was on the wiry woman and he lost sight of you, but then he looked up again and his eyes went instantly to you.

You were bowing again, waving and allowing the crew to bow. The fans were being gently pressed back away from the stage and—this time—seemed to be listening. The house lights went on and he could see that everyone was picking up their coats and leaving in an orderly fashion. It was no slower nor faster than a busy night at the Tokyo Opera.

Slowly, he uncoiled. The big performance was tonight, and it seemed that perhaps things would go smoothly. He took in gradually deeper breaths as the curtains rattled down the rails and closed. Then everyone began flooding towards him to go on to the green rooms to rest. You were trailing towards the back, panting and sweating in your exhaustion. His breath sucked in and for some instinctive reason, he stood suddenly taller with his gut sucked further in. You graced him with a smile and a nod, but otherwise just walked right past him.

He called himself ten kinds of fool in his head, but everything seemed to sink to his feet.

The rest period between performances was mercifully just over an hour. You were in the green room and he would have said that was a good thing—that you needed to rest—but people ran back and forth between dressing rooms and green rooms. Everyone seemed to be needing something—a new guitar string, a new pair of drumsticks, a new copy of page 3 of the sheet music for the encore. There wasn’t really any rest, more of a less strenuous time.

He stood in the hallway, watching the chaos.

Then, almost before he was ready, it was time to go out for the main performance of the night. Somehow, you were again perfection—your hair tamed down again, your skin that polished ceramic he loved, the small rip in a costume from the earlier performance mended. Everything was in place, as if this was the very first time.

And the crowd loved it.

He could vaguely see the crowds bouncing up and down, wildly cheering and chanting. They all seemed to be enthusiastic and positive. No one seemed abnormal. Nothing seemed unusual. He figured that he had nothing to worry about.

Something still gnawed at his gut.

It had to be the mission brief that was making him antsy.

Taking a deep breath, he stayed at his post, watching the performance from the shadowy wings. Again, you breezed past during the short intermission, scarcely giving him a second glance. Again, he told himself that this was for the best—you were part of a mission.

The second part of the performance was rolling along and he had just about convinced himself that he was being overly anxious when he saw the man in the second row. He caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. What was it? He seemed to be another enthusiastic fan, jumping up and clapping and chanting with the rest of the audience. He wasn’t in a thick coat or anything. There did not seem to be anything wrong at all.

He ducked backwards and went to the auditorium security. They had no idea—of course they didn’t—but they did allow him to put in a report. That was basically to describe the guy and the possible threat. Hanzo paced anxiously, on the verge of demanding to be in the control booth, when he heard the melody switch and heard a roar from the audience.

He bolted back to the wing of the stage, expecting that you were simply getting another round of applause, but there was another tenor now. People were starting to clear out the rows and the screaming rose to a terrified pitch. You and the band were frozen, staring from the stage. The spotlight trembled and then tilted wildly off to the side and he had to assume the man directing the lights was running as well.

He ran to you, and grabbed your arm. Your eyes were wide and glazed and you screamed, “There’s a bomb!”

He nodded and shoved you hard towards the wings. That finally got everyone moving, but your words had carried over the microphones and the entire audience began to stampede to the exits. He cursed and leapt down off the stage.

Two rows back—they were all empty now—there was a large bag half stuffed under the seat. It was half opened and he could see putty-colored blocks with wires and an electronic pad or something that had a countdown on the screen. Sweating suddenly, he approached it on light feet.

The lights were flickering up and down and the voice on the speaker kept encouraging people to go calmly to the exits and leave the building. At least under the cowboy hat, his eyes were protected from the shifting and blinking lights, so he could examine the bomb with fewer distractions.

C4. Wires. A triggering device.

He examined it again. He didn’t want to miss anything and he was glad that he did. There was a pressure plate underneath it. Undoubtedly, if he added or removed too much pressure, the bomb would trigger. This was obviously too sophisticated to be some crazy fan—this had to be Talon’s work.

He pulled out his cell phone and took a hasty collection of pictures. He was out now, there was no reason to not call in help. Genji answered and scanned the pictures—thank the ancestors—and got Zenyatta online.

The Omnic monk began examining the pictures and chirping, “Now from the side.”

Hanzo moved the phone and hoped his hands weren’t shaking too badly. “Alert the military base.”

“Already done, anija.” Genji’s voice was almost calm. “They are taking it seriously, but the police seem to think that this is another fake.”

Zenyatta came back online. “This is not a fake, with 98.225% probability. Can you see the panel on the right hand side?” Hanzo shifted his phone back to the pressure plate. “Use a non-magnetic screwdriver to open that panel.”

Hanzo bit back a frustrated groan and fished a coin out of his pocket. The panel did pop out and he saw a series of tiny batteries. “Do I get them out?”

“No, with a 100% probability.” Zenyatta’s voice was endlessly calm and vaguely musical. “Use a stylus or pen to press the small button—.”

“I found it.”

“That should reset the pressure plate to neutral, with 98% probability.”

Hanzo took a gulping breath and dug out stuff in his pockets until he found a toothpick. It would have to do. Pressing the button, the plate beeped three times and then then an alert appeared on the electric pad.

“Now, what Zenyatta-san?”

There was a slight clicking as Zenyatta began processing the camera’s view again. “Please view through the device screen.” Hanzo tilted the phone until he could see the wires and C4 through it. “Please take note and pull the indicated wires in order.”

“We do not have a lot of time.”

“There is 76% probability that this sequence will take approximately 4.32 seconds and will diffuse the bomb.”

Hanzo began tugging wires with one eye on the device’s countdown. Sweat stung his eyes as he tried to keep pulling wires. “This is taking too long, Zenyatta-san.”

“There is a 90.445% probability that this will be the last.”

Hanzo yanked the wire and prayed. The device did nothing and he dared to look at the device, just in time to see the final seconds count down. 3. 2. 1.

Nothing.

He let out a deep breath. “Thank you. Arigato, Zenyatta-san.”

“I would assume with 100% probability that everything is well.”

“It is done.”

“You may remove all of the remaining wires and the battery to prevent accidental detonation.”

“Really?”

“With 100% probability.”

He was shaking as he carefully took out the wires and separated the battery from the casing, the device from the putty blocks. The wires he stuffed into his pocket as he picked it all up in his arms and began to make his shaky way back to the exit.

The police, a few military police and a motley collection of security people were right there and surrounded him as he came out. He kept staring at the bag of putty blocks in his hand as they raised their SWAT shields around him. Someone—a deep voiced woman in a nondescript, black riot gear—told him to come this way. He was almost deaf and dumb as they led him to an even darker and more remote set of hallways underneath the auditorium.

The collection of security personnel got him off by himself. He was offered a steel flask from someone as they took the pieces of the bomb away. Nothing was registering beyond the collection of friendly hands surrounded him. He took a steel chair and plopped down in it.

He finally managed to say, “Contact the local base. There is a credible—.”

One of the darkly armored figures nodded. “We have confirmation from the base that everyone trying to attack has been apprehended.” Gloved fingers went to an ear and then the figure nodded. “Overwatch has been reinforcing the base tonight because they received an anonymous tip.” There was another pause. “I am not authorized to say more than it was a success.”

Hanzo puffed out a breath and felt every muscle go limp. Everyone was safe. You were safe. The auditorium was safe and the hundreds of people—vendors and audience and the band—were safe.

You were safe.

He heard vague cheers. Someone said that he was brave. Someone else said that he was a hero. He heard a few things in a distant way, he supposed they were compliments, but truthfully he was exhausted.

He sighed heavily and finally looked up at one of the security personnel. “I need to rest.”

Someone gave him some coffee. Someone else managed to bring him a chocolate bar. Everything whirled into a mass of arms and hands and armor. He had no words to say, nothing to do. They would keep him here until the auditorium was entirely clear. He would likely get a call in the morning to advise whether they needed him to wrap up the mission or if he could wait until Angel got back.

Whirls of armor. Gray and black.

Hanzo nodded dumbly at the indistinct rumbles of voices. His hands trembled as he struggled to hold on to the flask. How odd that he had drunk gallons of sake and vodka and scotch and whiskey. Even that abominable moonshine that Jesse brought onto the base. He had been drunk. He had—once—been high from one of the delicious drugs that Shimada thugs pushed on the streets.

Nothing had felt like this.

At last—at long last—the group opened up to escort him out. He had to chuckle when they rolled up a large, boxy truck and help him climb up in the back. A “paddy wagon” Jesse would call it—a large vehicle designed to move lots of dangerous criminals who would be in handcuffs or straps and then locked into the steel loops welded to the frame. They put him in the back of a large paddy wagon as if he was a dangerous criminal.

He could vaguely see out the reinforced glass in the back door that he was going away from the dark auditorium. He managed to scramble together enough wit to wonder how long they had him in isolation since there were no news reporters scurrying around. Usually they would be camping out for something as exciting as a bomb in an auditorium before disappearing in waves to send little tidbits of news and details and then reappearing like mice desperate for crumbs.

But they passed the exit to the hotel.

His heart sank, but there was no choice. He now needed to disappear. Hopefully, you would would have Angel back soon. Or you would find someone else to protect you. You would probably be told that he was involved—to excuse his absence. You might even be told that....

What did it matter?

Whatever you were told, you would likely never see him again.

He was driven to a new hotel. He could tell from the sickly pansies out front that there would be no room service. No large tubs. No adjoining rooms. No breakfast downstairs. No workout room. A basic, economy hotel.

Why was that fact pressing so hard he could barely breathe?

He was handed a large envelope when the heavily armored people opened up the back doors again. Despite the large wad of papers and his official notice of debriefing, he cared only about the cheap plastic card. Numbers—109–were scrawled on it in a messy grease pencil. He staggered along the hallway until he saw the plastic plate saying ‘109’ on it.

The door lock clicked with a wave of the card and he pulled the thin door open. Jesse sat on the bed, staring at a noisy cartoon, while Genji and a lieutenant played cards at the plastic table. They all looked up at him with varying degrees of interest, but it was the lieutenant who finally broke the silence.

“Agent Shimada,” he murmured. “Have a... ahh...?”

Genji gave him a nod and sauntered to the bed to stare at the television. Hanzo took that as a sign to sit down and took the chair. The television blared the noisy cartoon battle—two large monstrous creatures shooting each other with lasers and missiles that emerged from knees and shoulders and even one from the overly large pectoral plates.

Hanzo whispered, “Still watching Guyver, otouto?”

“Hai.” Genji shot him a playful scowl and whispered, “This is the best part—where the Guyver III appears and they learn his true identity.”

Jesse drawled, “Is that what this is? I haven’t been able to make heads er tails of it.” He scratched at his beard. “I don’t read that fast.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes wearily before facing the man in front of him. “I suppose that this is my debrief.”

The other man nodded in a crisp way. “You did well. Commendations have been added to your personal records.” He pulled a briefcase out from under his seat with all the grace of a pet student pulling a backpack out from under his desk. The sparkling clean clasps clicked open like a military drill before he pulled out a stack of papers. “If you elect to maintain your requested anonymity, your official story is that you have been on retreat at the Swiss Watchpoint. Details have been provided in your debrief.”

“So was I never here? Or was I simply in the area?”

“Details are in the debrief, along with plane tickets, your itinerary, and some literature on the talk that you attended there.” The lieutenant shook his head. “If you elect to keep up the silliness of an assumed identity for this mission.”

Jesse rolled his head over to look at Hanzo. “Awww... Han. Did you go on vacation without us?”

The lieutenant continued with all the confidence of a PhD teaching grade school. “You will be relieved to know that the management has been told that ‘Genji’ has had a family emergency. A new bodyguard has been sent to take your place and your affects will be picked up by an agent tomorrow.”

Hanzo’s younger brother let out a cackle and he sighed heavily. “I... suppose it is for the best.”

“It is for the best that we move on.” The lieutenant nodded placidly. “And then you are free to spend a few days here to rest before you return to base. Two days.” He stood up and put everything back into the briefcase. “If you will sign the acceptance of the briefing, then I will take it back with me tonight. Here is a pen.”

Hanzo fumbled through the papers and found the briefing acceptance. He signed at the highlighted spaces and handed to paper over. The lieutenant took the paper and slid it with careful efficiency into his briefcase before closing the clasps with a military snap. It took barely a few minutes to sign his way out of your life.

“Genji—which room is mine?” he asked softly.

“Oh, here’s your card. You’re in room 124–down the hall. I brought a few of your clothes and put them in there.”

Hanzo stared at the new card wearily. 124. Just down the hall—and a million miles from ever seeing you again.

He slept. Genji helpfully brought him some tea and a scone and somehow left it on the plastic table in his room. It had to have been Genji. He hoped it was Genji because it was beyond disturbing to think of the immense cowboy picking the cheap hotel lock and dropping a styrofoam cup of green tea and a bag from a local bakery on his table.

He ate and drank. He took a long, long shower before carefully combing his hair. The sides were still stubbly and short and dark. It would take months to grow out to his normal length. He could at last take out the stupid nose piercing and—with a med pack—it would heal almost instantly and without a trace. He no longer needed the fake piercings either and he could soak in the tub. The fake tattoos would fade in a week or two—faster if he did some exfoliating. Or he could find somewhere to release the dragons and the false tattoos would flake off of his skin like ash. The first thing you learned about the dragons was that they did not tolerate the bodies they chose as their temples to be marred with sigils or false insignia. The skin of his arms would tingle like he was bathing in effervescence and all of the false tattoos would simply flake off like ashes. He had tried it once—used an ink pen to draw a carp for good luck and fortune along his bicep—and it had simply gone away after he released the dragons.

That was a frighteningly sad thought.

But there was nothing to be done, so he simply waited. The hours passed and finally there was a knock on the door. Jesse passed him a meal of take out Chinese and the most synthetic, plastic tasting sushi he had ever suffered through. Genji came in with two decks of cards for an hour before leaving again. After another long nap, Genji reappeared with the bags he had carted around while he had toured with you.

There was a depressing period that he simply stared at the bags with the flannel shirts, the denim pants, the boots. The half shirts that he could kid himself that you liked seeing him in—that fake self he had so carefully cultivated like an alien self grafted onto a root. What were you going to think about him just up and leaving like that? He was sure, at first, you’d be upset. Perhaps worried with the bomb being right there. Then, as the minutes passed, he thought that... maybe you would simply be relieved since all the crazy stuff happened right as he joined your team. That sounded more and more likely the more and more he whispered it to himself.

He gathered up Genji and Jesse and bundled into the large, anonymous car that they had. Everything was stuffed into the trunk and on the scant space of the back seat. They rumbled through the town and he dozed with his shoulder against a large bag right until they got to the outer gates of the base.

Days passed as he floated along. From the local military base, he was airlifted back to the Overwatch headquarters. He got on with his life, with his job. He managed to get out the piercing and—with the help of a medic and a health pack—healed so that you could barely tell that it had ever been there. He washed his hair three times, but honestly there wasn’t much he could do except wait for it to grow out, so with the inky hair color fading ever so slightly, he settled with parting his hair slightly differently so that the shaved parts weren’t so noticeable. He put the denim and boots aside—they were tailored to his measurements, so he was stuck with them—in the back of his closet and pulled out his familiar hakama and the kyudo gi that was practically his trademark. He went to the rifle range—the heavy duty one that Winston used to test new weapons—and loosed his dragons so that the fake tattoos would disappear and the honorable and traditional one would remain.

You were in the news reports. Your concerts were sold out—of course they were. You had some notoriety from the bombs (both the fake and the real one), but by some miracle, it didn’t seem to hold the news like your music did.

The concert tour stayed sold out. He was glad. He was truly glad that you were doing well. The few times that he was out and about on base and—honestly—forced to say more than a greeting, he would encourage them to go to your concert. He thought he sounded like an idiot, but he—truly—wanted your success. So, he would put up with a few casual conversations and sounding slightly deranged.

It was all he could do.

The fact that he bought two of your albums was something no one needed to know. No one needed to know that he played at least a track or two each day when he was cleaning up in the mornings. No one needed to know that he had a photo of you on his phone—it was not his wallpaper or lock screen—and that once or twice he stopped in a corner or hallway just to look at it for a moment before hastily covering it with something else. No one else needed to know that he browsed for news of your concert late at night when the offices around his were empty.

And so he lived a half-life next to you in spirit as he kept reading of your tour. Every time you went to a new venue, you were steadily further and further away from him and as the weeks passed and his hair on the side of his head became frothy wings if he didn’t paste it down with hairspray each morning, he kept reading your social media and whatever news he could find. He knew that the tour would end sometime and then you would vanish into the mist like a dream.

Hanzo was buying a bag of rice, some frozen vegetables and another can of hairspray when he saw the cheap magazine with your face on the cover. He couldn’t help but pick up the magazine and set it down with his few groceries when he saw the plump woman behind him staring at him with puckered lips and narrowed eyes as her young daughter picked up another copy. Hastily, he snatched up a political magazine and covered your face up with the somber politician’s and focused on the bewildering display of chocolates and candies. Thankfully, the checker simply waved the magazines over the reader without expression and then dumped them in his heavy cloth bag. So, he was able to escape the store without anyone else being the wiser.

Back at his home, he pulled out the magazine with the adoration of a penitent at a shrine. You had a half page article detailing your tour and the ticket sales and your generosity to first responders. It just figured that the day after he left, you had arranged a post-concert meet-and-greet for the first responders and security men who had dealt with the bomb.

He had been asleep and choking down terrible food.

Most of it was uninteresting—even the snarky comments at the end wondering if you would ever get married, as if that should have been your goal in life all along—but one thing did stand out to him. Not the ticket sales. Not the sentence that you had brought along Angel’s family and had that fourth bus now so that they could stay together. Not the fact that you were talking about doing a benefit concert for women’s shelters the following spring.

You had arranged to do a free concert for Overwatch first responders.

You knew someone—perhaps a demon, perhaps an angel—who helped you because he was sure there was no other way that you would have tracked him down so easily. The phone number and the computer he had used while he was on tour had been wiped and reassigned to someone else. There was—to his knowledge—any Genji Yomata anywhere if you were trying to track down his alias. And if there was—they would certainly tell you that you were mistaken. So, you had to have some contact here at Overwatch—or he had the worst luck known to men.

It was the immediate sensation on base. One of the huge parade pavilions was being cleaned up and inspected. Memos went out detailing the private concert was for Overwatch members and their families. The pavilion had a small speaker system and electricity (mainly for honoring or giving commendations) plus one of the large auditoriums was going to broadcast for the overflow crowds. Tracer and Emily raced around to put up posters and Jesse volunteered to help with the setup. Somehow some commander had approved your caravan—all four buses—to park near enough that you could set up easily. Genji volunteered to head the security detail to help you maintain your privacy and to escort you around the base. Winston—who knew the big primate was also a fan?—convinced someone to open up the cafeteria so that you could meet a few select people afterwards at a reception. The gossip was of nothing else except your concert.

Hanzo was annoyed that nothing else seemed to matter in the few days leading up to the concert. He did not waste his time chattering like a magpie at the gossips. He did not sign up for any of the volunteer duties—not that there were any left at this late date—and he carefully stayed away from the pavilion where extra cables and lights were being installed. He stopped eating at the cafeteria where the gossip about the reception was explosive.

Still, he did want to hear you. His disks were starting to skip from their near constant use and he told himself that he could pick up copies at your concert. He wanted to be sure that you were well. He wanted to be sure that you weren’t suffering. That you were safe.

It wasn’t that he was hungry to see you again.

He told himself a hundred stories—a hundred excuses—but none of them seemed to hold him. His treacherous cock was tingling and alive again as he looked at the complimentary ticket that he had placed in the mirror of his bathroom so he could see it each morning. No matter how much he said that he was not looking forward to your reappearance, it couldn’t stop him from doing it anyway like a rabid teenager rutting over a picture of nakedness.

He chose a seat off to one side, near the back. The spotlights would blind you, effectively hiding him, but just in case, he tugged a hooded haori coat on and then allowed the graying wings at his temples to fluff a bit. He looked his age now and you would never recognize an old man like him, dressed like this.

You sang like an angel. He knew every move, every breath, every light as air spin and twirl. He knew it as if he had created it. He knew where the bridges were supposed to be—where someone would play a few bars while you ran backstage for a costume change—that you omitted because there was no way to do the full costume changes in an open pavilion. He could manage to grin when you almost tripped over a stray wire and when you improvised a slight bow to the roadie who pulled it aside.

Throughout it all, he was rigid. Every muscle was clenched tight, his mouth pursed like he was eating green persimmons, and his hands in fists because if he didn’t, he would rush the stage and pounce on your right there. In front of everyone, he would grab you and rut against you in front of everyone.

There was a brief intermission and his teeth clenched to see Genji’s team help escort you to a tent. The lights went on after you were gone and he shuffled around enough that politeness was satisfied. It was ten forevers before you were escorted back on Genji’s arm and took the stage again.

He knew the whole performance. He knew every moment of it. He knew exactly the two songs you would be “persuaded” to come out to do as encores. He knew the moment you bowed and then stepped back so the entire crew could bow. He felt the immense satisfaction of seeing you smiling and gleaming.

Then, there was the moment of confusion—delightful, electric confusion—when you stepped forward with your violin. The audience died down and there was a murmur of excitement. How unexpected! He had not been so surprised in years and everything was boiling inside as you went to one of the microphones.

“So, as you know, there was a bomb at one of my concerts.” Soft hisses and comments rippled through the crowd and Hanzo could only imagine what was being said inside. “I would like to personally thank all of the first responders who were there. Who go through hell and back to make sure ordinary citizens are safe.” He could see your cheeks color, despite the spotlight and your makeup. “And if he’s out there—then I’d like to thank one in particular, who made sure that I was safe. So this one is for Genji—.”

The entire audience erupted in applause. A standing ovation. Hanzo stood up as a matter of course—nothing would be more telling if he was sitting while literally everyone else was standing up and cheering—amid all of the ruckus. You barely got the audience sat down before you were playing again.

Soft notes rippled through the air. Your drummer and a guitarist wandered back on stage, providing a rough backbeat and a slight harmony. Finally, you were singing and every word was soft and sure like a razor sharp arrow to where his heart had once been. Where his heart would be thundering if he still had one—if he had not given it to you.

“And now I must... say good-bye. And this time I don’t know why—why I must say good-bye.” A slow and languid ballad that had everyone rocking slightly and every ear tingling. Your songs were all beautiful, but this was somehow different. “I don’t know why we’re done. I don’t know why you’re gone. But now I must say good-bye.”

He ignored the pain folding his heart in two as you kept crooning. “Why did we have to say good-bye? I can’t believe I can’t cry... all of these dammed up tears and all of these damned cold fears. Why did we have to say... good-bye....”

It must have been raining. Someone was cutting onions. He could not be crying—out in public like a fool. An old fool wishing for youth and vitality to impress a young woman. Faust warned about such stupidity. Hanzo didn’t know what else it could be....

“Why did all of the us have to die? With a soft and gentle sigh. Can’t keep up with all the excuses. The drama and the fears. Can’t hold back all the tears. And I can’t think about why, when I can’t think good-bye.” 

Not a single eye was dry when you finished. Or at least—his weren’t. You smiled and bowed again. You nodded and gave a weary wave and said, “To Genji.”

Hanzo bit his lip to the blood and then lapped it up, rubbing his sleeve carelessly again his chin. Someone began chanting Genji’s name and immediately everyone picked it up. He was crushed—folded and spindled and mutilated—and could barely sit in his chair without collapsing.

He was a masochist to sit here.

It was a new form of punishment to hear them chanting his brother’s name and you smiling and clapping and egging the audience on. A new depth of hell beyond the nine rings to see his brother stagger forward and bow to you. He gave a shaky, clumsy bow to you and then strolled off the stage with his lights glowing in an uncertain way.

Hanzo couldn’t bear to have you see him—not with his face blotchy and his hair escaping its thick layer of hairspray. He tugged the hood further down and looked away, drifting into the first crowd of fans filing out and starting to head home.

There was nothing he could do.

He took the long way around the winding sidewalks to the tall apartment buildings. There was no point in rushing home to the empty apartment with the half comforts that reminded him of you. He wasn’t in a hurry to spend another long night drinking and then falling into bed when he couldn’t hold up his head any more.

He climbed the steps up to his door, staring at the tips of his feet like he was hypnotized. He had a bottle of sake somewhere, he was sure of it. It would take the edge off and even if he was stuck in this inner darkness, he could at least halfway enjoy it with a hefty amount of Dutch courage.

There was nothing he could do.

So, it was with considerable surprise when he realized that his whole apartment was alight. There was light pouring through literally every window. Hanzo groaned. Undoubtedly, Genji had raced over here to gloat. They had been picking locks since they were children and opening each other’s rooms to play pranks. For years, they had been sneaking across the estate to open maid’s rooms or steal bean buns or to hide each other’s homework. So, he had no doubt that Genji had simply let himself in and was laying in wait like an half Omnic panther.

He sighed, trying to muster the courage and will not to kill his brother again. The last thing he wanted to have was yet another “I told you so”. Or worse—“You should get out more, anija”. It took so much more patience than he had at the moment to even tolerate the half minute it would take to simply throw his brother out.

Finally, he decided that he had gathered whatever reserves he had left. There was nothing left to do but grip the plain brass knob and twist. Of course it was unlocked—he hadn’t expected anything else, really—and it slid open. The door opened and bathed him in light.

He took another halting breath and stepped inside. Every muscle felt bent over like every folded truth he had ever told. His eyes drug up wearily to see take in the illuminated living room.

Genji was lounging in one of his chairs, his mask off and his long legs kicked out quite easily. Yes, every single lamp and light was blazing and showering him in unmerciful light. “Anija—there you are. We weren’t sure you’d ever find your way home.”

Hanzo was going to say something—to spit some pithy curse about tin men with no hearts—but then he heard the softest melody of a laugh and his eyes scraped sideways to the other chair. You were perched there, your skin rosy and scrubbed clean and in a floppy flannel shirt and a loose denim skirt.

“Hey, there,” you murmured with a shy flush.

His eyes were riveted to your face, but he stumbled back as if you had punched him. To your horror, he seemed to fade to a sallow gray shadow of himself and he wove on his feet. “W-w-what—? Why?” His eyes flicked back and forth from you to anything else and then back to you. “I—. This can... cannot be happening.”

You gaped at his stuttering reply. “What’s wrong?” You flushed again as you glanced at the younger brother. “Was...? It was the song wasn’t it? Or... that I got...? I mean.... you told me your name was ‘Genji’. I....” Things suddenly seemed to fall into some kind of jumble for you. “It... I totally messed everything up, didn’t I? I mean... The song.”

His eyes closed slightly and he rubbed at them with a shaking hand. “I lost.... I lost you.” A hoarse chuckle grated out. “I never... had you—.”

Your snarl echoed in the apartment as you barked, “That’s not my fault!” You shot to your feet and stalked up to him. “I... I tried at least. I gave it a shot and tried my best. You are the one who left—.”

That snapped something in him and instantly his face flushed red. “I was not given a choice!”

“Tell me what happened?! I got hustled out and then with the police and I didn’t see you or hear from you. I had to go to the trials—both of them—and explain what happened and you were... you were gone. I thought that you had died. I called all the hospitals. All the clinics. You had just vanished like a ghost and left my band—left me—behind....”

He stumbled slightly, crashing his shoulder against the wall. “I had... no choice. I could not even leave the auditorium until after everyone had gone. The police escorted me to a different hotel.”

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“Then I was given a....” He shook his head, uncertain what to say. “I was.... There was no choice.” You were close enough that you could see a shimmer in his eyes. “I was not... prepared....”

“For what?!” You were shaking, shivering, as your skin prickled. “Wouldn’t...? Wouldn’t it have been better to... do this together?” You waved in with a jerk of your arm. “I mean.... Wouldn’t it have been better? Couldn’t you have at least... told me you were alive? That I didn’t need to keep calling the police and the hospitals and—I even called the state pen and three prisons! I was worried sick.

“And I mean worried sick. I ended up doing a lip sync two nights for the encores because.. I kept throwing up. I kept throwing up because I kept waiting for you to come in and... and tell me that you were back. That you were... something.” Tears were filing your eyes and his eyes locked on the tiny silver tear that danced down your cheek. “Anything. That you were going to leave. That you were quitting and never wanted to be a bodyguard again. That you were going to....”

“To what? Tell you that... I had lied through it all?”

“Yes! To tell me something!” You spun wildly, hugging your arms around yourself. “Anything would have been better than just... not knowing anything.”

He couldn’t say anything for a wicked moment. A moment that he thought about kneeling at your feet and wrapping his arms around your hips. “How... could I have known—?”

That made you spin around to face him, your face contorted as you looked up at him. “Well, I thought I was making myself fucking clear.” Without a moment’s warning, your hand cracked across his cheek. Hanzo never saw it coming—never knew it was in you to be that violent or angry—and never lifted a finger in his own defense. The sound echoed in the mind long after the apartment lapsed into silence. His head jerked to one side before he managed to look at you again. “I thought that every single moment that we were eating together. Every time we got breakfast together. Every time that we went to those horrible hotel gyms. I thought that every single time that I came running off the stage and you... you always had water and a candy bar—that it meant that... you got the message.”

He sighed, his eyes closed as every lie he had told threatened to choke him. “I... I did. I thought that you... were being friendly. That perhaps you simply... were going to.... That maybe it was simply that you were that way with everyone. With a new member of your crew.”

“What?!” you screeched in a pitch that scraped in a high pitched way. “What? No. Just no.” Your whole face went somehow pale and red at the same time. “I have never, ever... never done anything like that—!”

“What?”

You reached out and shoved his shoulders, sending him stumbling backward like a clumsy clod. “You know what? I tried. I gave it my best shot and if you didn’t want it, then that’s fine. At least I tried.” He managed to get to his feet. “And for the next woman stupid enough to give you the time of day—at least tell her that you’re a chicken who isn’t interested.”

He felt as if he was moving through treacle or molasses. Everything seemed slow and in some kind of dream-like haze that stopped him from anything. “I... I was....” He scowled like a feral wild-man about to rip into a side of raw meat. “I was everything you have ever feared.” That made you draw back and he kept growling, his voice swelling until he was finally shouting. “Everything that anyone ever told you to fear—every time you have rushed past a dark alley or backed away from a man—I am that. I am old and every day of my life has been in the darkest underbelly you can imagine. Your family—your friends—who said to beware, to fear. They were talking about me. Your worst nightmare cannot compare to what I am every moment of every day!”

“No!” you screamed at him so loud and shrill that your ears ached. “You are not!”

“I am,” he insisted with a sudden, deadly quiet.

“You are not!”

“I was a yakuza.”

“No!” you wailed.

“What more do you need, you foolish girl?! I was a yakuza.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him anymore. “I was the oyabun, after my father. Do you even know what that means?!” Your head shook weakly. “I was the leader of the clan. I was in charge of every man. Every job. Every weapon and every yen.”

“B-b-but... you’re not. You’re... you’re with Overwatch. I... I was so—so foolish to not recognize you. But you’re a famous hero.” You backpedaled slightly, falling away from him like a stung cat. “I mean... okay, I’m an idiot for not recognizing you, but you’re not some terrible monster.”

“I killed my brother.” He took your stunned silence at the bald announcement with a nod of his head. “I was sent by the clan to kill my brother and I did.”

“What... happened?”

“I killed him.” He slumped back, thudding against the wall with a hound dog look on his face. “I killed him. I did... what I was supposed to.”

“And?”

“And... I was... horrified.” He thought he heard a soft mewl, but nothing was registering except for the certainty that he would never see you again. “Then, I... left.”

“L-l-left?”

He growled again, but it was down to the floor as if he was growling at a waterlogged crevice he had stuck his foot in. “I ran away. There. Does that satisfy you?” You were crying, then, stumbling back to fall into his living room chair. “I ran because I could not believe that the Shimada Sparrow was truly gone. I ran.. because I hated what I had... become. I ran because I... thought... wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“I thought I had a code. I thought that I was the honorable Shimada Master. The Shimada Scion. I thought that I... was different. Different from the old men that were cold hearted and thought everything was a competition where they must win and others must lose.” The room was a great chasm now—with you far away from him on the other side where only his words could reach you. “I thought that... I was different and that... we could—.”

“You could stop them.”

He shook his head with a rueful grunt. “I could not. That was entirely the point. I could not stop them—I was a monster, too.”

“But... you’re not.”

“I was a monster. A monster that they made. And when they said to kill the Shimada Sparrow, I... did.” His shoulders shuddered as he wrestled with some unseen weight. “I cannot undo that. I cannot....”

You shook your head wildly, curling up with your hands over your face. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe that... that you could do something like that.”

“Shojo,” he whispered gruffly. “Little one—I am a monster. Whether I am the Shimada Scion or the hero of Overwatch, I am still a monster.”

“But you’re not!” Angry red eyes glowered up at him. “I mean... I know you! I know—.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know that you’re the only one who stood there, waiting for me. Every time, you had cold water and candy and... and you smiled like... like you... couldn’t wait to see me.” You wiped your face. “I was.... I was so glad to see you. And... you smiled like you were proud of me and it didn’t matter all the times that I messed up. All the times that I wasn’t perfect, because you were there and you were proud of me. And you never even complained when I practiced in the bus. Or when we were practicing as a group and....” You sniffled noisily. “And then I knew you’d order room service. And it was a-a-always great because... because I knew I could get you to eat with me.”

He nodded sagely. “I am not a saint.”

“I wanted to you to... to come back. Or... something. To tell me that... we could.... That we were going to....”

“I am... not a saint. I am... I am a man who has made too many mistakes. I cannot be forgiven.”

“I forgive you.”

He stared at you in disbelief. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because... you are not a monster. Because you are good to me. Because you... Because you brought me water and candy. Because you looked out for me. Because you saved me. Because you...”

“You knew... only one side of me.” His expression wavered between hopeless and haunted. “I am... a chameleon. I can act—.”

“No.”

His gruff sound was not a laugh. “I am able to be anyone.”

“You are so much more, though. I saw you as ‘Genji’ and you were honorable and thoughtful and you risked your life to protect everyone.” You took in a shuddering breath full of tears. “And... I can see you as Hanzo—as you—and you’re constantly risking your life for others.”

“I killed my brother.”

You cocked your head and he could see the insight flash into you. “You were... doing your best. The best you could do at the time.”

“I still killed him and I could not risk anyone else....”

“Is it because I’m touring?”

“No!”

“Is it because I’m performing?”

“No! Nothing like that. It is.... It is....”

“It’s what?” You tilted your head the other way. “What happened and why?”

“I killed my brother.”

“Why?”

“When I killed Genji?” You nodded uncertainly. It seemed that you were curious, but not malicious and his knees buckled. No one had asked him that. No one had ever asked him why. He knew he was about to fall over and rather than face that dishonor, he took the chance to creep closer and take the other chair. “You want to know why.”

You didn’t turn away. You didn’t flinch as he flopped down. You didn’t wrinkle your nose or look somewhere else. How novel—to be asked those burning questions without any sign of disgust. He took a deep breath and whispered, “I killed Genji. I... I was—. I was the oyabun. I was supposed to be in charge, to protect my younger brother. I was supposed to lead the clan into the next decades and then, in time, raise my own son to take care of the clan in the future.

“I promised our father I would take care of him. I promised that I would guard him. I swore on his deathbed that he could rest easy because I would never let anything happen to Genji.” He propped his elbows on his knees, bent like an old man staring at the bottom of his life. “I was going to do that—I was going to protect my brother. I was going to lead the clan.”

“But that’s not what happened?”

“I was summoned. The elders had always been upset at the way he acted. He was playful, a joker. He was the most skilled ninja—.”

“A ninja?!” you gasped, your eyes suddenly wide. He scowled at you and you flushed and shut up with a murmured, “Sorry. Keep going.”

“He was the most skilled ninja our clan had ever produced. But he... he was too good.” Another of those body shaking sighs. “He... he gathered intel no one else could. He could find leads when no one else could, could learn what no one else could. The playfulness... it was not wrong. He could play as hard as he worked, but it was a necessity that no one know exactly all of the work he did.

“Unfortunately, my father suspected that the elders were corrupt.” His hands gestured, as if he was losing grip on some ephemeral dream. “I suppose that I should say, more corrupt. In the yakuza, a certain amount of... corruption is acceptable. Even encouraged because it says that a man is a man who can get things done and who can make his own way. As long as the oyabun and other members do not lose face, a level is politely... ignored.

“My father knew—we all did—that the elders were skimming some of the profits, some of the take. We knew that they would pull out their favorite whores for a while to play with before putting them back on their corners. We knew one or two that had quiet addictions. Almost all of us were borderline alcoholics.

“But, with any group that has been together for a long time, some were growing more bold. Taking a little more rather than giving their proper percentages and proper respect. Making hidden alliances.” He shuddered again. “We knew it was happening and, when I became oyabun, I decided to send Genji out to bring them back into line.

“For three months he was gone and... I feared he was dead. He literally disappeared. I was going to hold his funeral—to summon all of the elders and their families—but he came to my office the night before I was to start.

“He found that one of my cousins in Hokkaido was going to stage a coup. Except while he was investigating that, he found... so much more. The coup was bad enough, but he found that one of the elders had turned sides and was going to betray us to another clan. Then a third elder—his family had gone into protective custody and he was going to try to escape and go to Switzerland with the clan’s money.

“It was too much. He found it all. Could prove it all. There was a thick folder of his evidence that he dropped on my desk. The Shimada were going to explode into a thousand tiny shards and Genji knew when, where.

“The elders could not rise up one by one. One does not simply retire. When he found their secrets, they decided that he was expendable. So, they convened a meeting, declared him a worthless and lazy playboy, and asked for a vote.”

“A vote?”

“We... voted by putting stones into a bag. A white stone and a black stone, each carved with our dragon crest. Then, when the stones were poured out, there were only two white stones and ten black ones. He was to die.”

You were pale and your hands were in tight fists, but you said nothing. “He was to die and... I asked to be the one to do it. I told them it would restore my father’s honor if I did.” Again his eyes dropped and his hands clenched at nothing helplessly. “It was a lie. I was going to smuggle him out of Japan until I had things under control.”

You unwound from your chair and reached to touch his trembling hand. He looked at your lightly joined hands in amazement and then whispered, “I was going to save him. I found him—we were brothers and knew each other’s moves, each other’s thoughts. I told him that I had found someone to smuggle him to Switzerland. I told he was a dead man if he did not leave.

“I did not know that it was a plant from Overwatch, trying to make an overture. They did not know it was me—they thought it was a lower level stooge trying to help his brother escape the evil Shimada oyabun. They were already on their way and he was going to stay in the hostel until they arrived so that he could get safety.

“It was all arranged. I was going to get rid of some of the renegade members by giving their information to Overwatch. In exchange, they were going escort Genji to safety. We knew the schedule, exactly when they were going to arrive. And we knew how to hide our tracks, how to evade suspicion. Overwatch was getting a refugee and information. The Shimada were expecting me to be gone, tracking Genji to kill him.

“So, five minutes before he was safe—five minutes before Overwatch was to arrive—I pulled out my flask to have a last drink. I was going to drink a last time with my brother and I poured him a drink in the one plastic cup in the room. He took that drink and... fell over, convulsing.”

You wriggled your hand into holding his. His hands were almost frozen stiff. It seemed that he needed to speak. It felt like he was going to explode if he didn’t let it all out. “Go on,” you whispered.

“I was terrified. I had been sent out to kill him, but... someone had decided to be sure that I was out of the way as well. It does not matter who, honestly, but the story of what happened.... That fell apart and everyone interpreted it to suit them. Overwatch decided that the had been interacting with Genji as the possible informant and the man he was protecting was at large. The elders decided that I had killed Genji and that Overwatch had arrested me. It was a cloudy enough affair that everyone decided that they had gotten what they wanted.”

“You killed him.” He nodded slowly. “But... it wasn’t your fault.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

It was so sudden. So sure and firm and so lost. His hand tightened around yours. “I love you.”

You were shocked, but somehow you knew it was true. He had... somewhere over hotel dinners, bad bottles of wine, and bomb threats, he had fallen in love with you. It was in the way he gripped your hand. The way that he looked up at you with that hollow eyed stare that all but dared you to believe him.

You did believe him.

“I have never told anyone the entire truth. What really happened.”

You believed that, too.

You were staring at your joined hands when you felt his hands tighten, jerk. Your eyes went up his arms up, to his shoulders, then to his face. Tears—macho, fat tears—rolled unchecked down his cheeks as he kept staring at you. You touched them, making them vanish with brushes of your fingertips. Then, you whispered, “I love you, too.”

He let out a hoarse and desperate cry and grabbed you, wrapping his arms around you and dragging you up to him. Everything snapped into a desperate sort of place as hands clasped and held, arms wrapped tightly and bodies pressed together. It was the sort of reunion that could be lauded in song and story.

Of course, none of it ended swiftly or without error. You had commitments through the next four years. He was deployed twice. You were moving around the country in your caravan of four blue busses. He missed seeing you at one point because he was out of the state. You missed seeing him return from a deployment because of a missed flight.

Despite that, there finally dawned a day when you were here again. He was beside himself and plucking at the petals of the red roses as you finally climbed out of the bus to settle back at the pavilion. You looked so pale, so innocent, as Angel and the crew began to unload and set up the stage up. And so blindingly glorious you took his breath away with your glow.

Somehow—and Hanzo never did say exactly how—you became an unofficial member of Overwatch. You would donate your time to recruiting drives, performing at events and one time even doing a fundraiser where you auctioned off a dinner to raise money for Overwatch’s wounded warrior program. He couldn’t have afforded to bid on your dinner date—it went to over a million too quickly—but he was unsurprisingly in a suit in the corner of the restaurant where you and the overly cocky CEO ate, watching you and him and ready to step in at the moment Mr. Overstuffed Suit stepped out of line.

It was an ending, though, and a new beginning. It was your last domestic concert—a benefit concert to thank Overwatch for their service—before he told Overwatch goodbye. As strange as it was, he was glad for this to be his end. He was satisfied to let this be his fond farewell before he joined you on your busses to tour with you on your Japanese tour.

Genji came by to congratulate him after the show. The lieutenants and commanders came by to shake his hand, to wish him well. Winston made a flowery speech, thanking him for his service. Jesse brought out his guitar and you graciously played a song with him. Hanna took pictures and posted them to her feed. Lucio took over as your band left, playing his own remixes. Mei and Zarya both stopped to have pictures with you. Everyone came by with well wishes and good-byes.

And at long last, when the last toast was drunk and all of the instruments were put away, he stood with you in the parking lot. Your bus was loaded up, filled with the gear and his two large bags of most everything that he had since he had literally come to Overwatch with his clothes and his bow. Genji could have the bits of furniture and whatever else he had left behind—to do with as he would. The mighty bow and quiver rested in their special place on the front bus, just behind the driver.

He stood there, right beside the bus, with you as you bid the last fan good night. You had told him that you had planned for a year of absence before doing another tour and the two of you were bound for your cabin in the West Virginia mountains. It was bittersweet, thinking that this might be the last time he saw this place, but then he could wrap his arms around you and think that this next year would still be good.

“So, what has happened to you, miss?” he asked with a smile. “You have looked like a cat with cream all evening.”

You shrugged and smiled at him. “Oh, really?”

He helped you climb into the bus and closed the door behind you both. You were still smiling in that extra silly way, your eyes alight with little secrets. He shrugged to himself as you led him through to the plush recliners. He went to the his normal seat to find a small white box, wrapped only with a white ribbon.

“So—are you going to open it?” you laughed from your seat.

He picked it up with exaggerated care and studied it carefully as the bus began to rumble on. “What is it?”

“That’s the point of giving gifts. To surprise people.” You laughed and leapt up to get another bottle of the fizzy water you had suddenly taken a liking to. “Why don’t you open it up?”

He stared at it for an inordinately long time before carefully tugging the ribbon to undo the bow and plucking off the top. There, in a small sheet of tissue of the palest blue, was a pair of tiny sneakers in black and white. He stared at them and then up at you and then again at the shoes.

“Do you mean it?”

You flushed and muttered, “Well, I thought that it was obvious.”

He was on his feet in a moment and had his arms around you. “Kirenia. Ojo. Is it true?”

“We are expecting a healthy baby in about six months,” you murmured. “I don’t know if it is a boy or a girl, but so far, so good.” His eyes filled with tears and he nodded again. “And we have a year to—.”

“To have you... and a child?” he gasped, nuzzling your brow. “A baby....”


End file.
